Footslave Fables Volume 1

The first volume in a collection of humble fables on the subject of footslavery.

VOLUME 1 CONTENTS (scroll down for fables in reverse numerical order)

20. The Street-Cleaner

19. The Sockgazer

18. The Courting Couple

17. Facing Up (To My Past)

16. Down, but not out

15. The Hole in the Wall Foot-kisser

14. Situation Vacant

13. Reflections on a Prickly Customer

12. Humble Apologies

11. Mistress Nicola's Boots (& Socks?)

10. The Slave of Two Generations

9. She 'aint heavy; she's my better

8. Not Fade Away

7. Desperation

6. My Infinite Superior and Better

5. The Picksocket

4. 'Hell hath no fury...'

3. Redundancy

2. A Foolish Proposal

1. The Three Types of Foot-Mistresses

.........................................................................................



Fable no. 20 – The Street-Cleaner

I am a public street-cleaner in Barbaria - the beautiful capital city of the Gynarchy. Every day I must lick clean the city pavements where my female betters have been walking.

It’s a dirty job, but some male slave has to do it, so it might as well be me.

I am responsible for cleaning one of the main thoroughfares that leads into the central town square – a street which is always busy with female pedestrians, day and night, and whose pavements are, consequently, forever being marked and stained by the dirt from the soles of superior ladies’ boot and shoes.

Licking that female dirt away is a thankless, never-ending task, but I actually derive a certain, pathetic sense of slavish satisfaction out of knowing that there is always work for me to do. I go to bed at night anxious to get up again the next morning in order to resume my humble street-licking, for I know that there will be fresh, feminine shoe and boot dirt sullying my street for me to lap up.

I say ‘go to bed’ but, of course, a mere public slave such as myself does not have a proper ‘bed’ to lie on. Rather, I am confined overnight on my stomach in an underground, concrete slave-hole with a hatch on the front through which I must crawl in backwards. It is not exactly what you would describe as comfortable accommodation, but it is good enough for the likes of me – a down-in-the-dirt, publicly owned, street-licking footslave.

In any case I don’t get to spend too long in my hell-hole each night, since my working hours are from 04:00 until 24:00 every day – a 20 hour working day! 365 days a year!

But that’s alright – I don’t need much sleep since my work is not intellectually demanding! And besides, the Female State has to get its money’s worth out of me since it is the female citizens’ taxes that pay for my upkeep – my hole; my slave-gruel; my water; and my taskmistresses.

I have several, regular taskmistresses who take care of me and watch over my humble labour in a succession of 8 hour shifts. Of course my taskmistresses have to work in shifts – given the long hours I have to work! It would be completely unreasonable to expect just one superior female to supervise my labour during such a long, hard working day licking female boot and shoe dirt off the city pavements!

And so every morning, at 4:00 am precisely, I am awoken by the sound of my hatch being opened, and am greeted by the sight of my first taskmistress of the day’s boots or shoes.

It is always a tense moment for me – for my early-morning taskmistress, whoever she is, is the one responsible for shaving and feeding me.

Some of them are sweet and kind, and do their job well. They provide me with a proper bowl of tasteless, but nutritional slave gruel. Sometimes, if they are feeling particularly kind and generous, they even supply me with a bowl of slave-gruel which has been seasoned with their own sweet shoe or boot dirt! Such conscientious taskmistresses are nice and kind because they know I have acquired a taste for feminine shoedirt over the many years of my back-breaking toil as a Gynarchy street-cleaner, and they feel sorry for me having to eat nothing but tasteless, unflavoured slave-mush every morning – as the Female State dictates I should.

For the Female State doesn’t give two hoots about a slave’s culinary tastes! But some of my individual taskmistresses do care, and they therefore unofficially ‘spice up my life’ with their shoedirt-flavoured gruel.

Other taskmistresses, however, are less sensitive to the pathetic needs of my footslave-tastebuds, and just serve me up with the standard fare. Some of my taskmistresses don’t really care about me, or their job. They just do it for the money – which, by all accounts, is quite a respectable salary given that, in the main, they are all young women in their early to mid twenties without any academic qualifications.

It’s not considered a particularly prestigious job – being a State taskmistress!

In my view, however, it is only right and proper that my taskmistresses should be well paid due to the often unsociable hours they have to work. I often feel guilty about the fact that they have to drag themselves out of their comfortable beds, and away from their manly boyfriends, at such a God-forsaken hour of the morning just in order to supervise my early-morning street-licking efforts!

Or they miss out on going out with their friends in the evening just because they must take it in turns to supervise my work at night!

However, I cannot be left to work unsupervised, for I am just a stupid and indolent male slave.

Anyway – be all that as it may – this morning I am in luck for, as soon as the hatch is unlocked and I poke out my sleepy head from my concrete hole, I observe the familiar flat, black, leather, square-toed, slip-on shoes of taskmistress Josephine. My heart leaps with joy because mistress Josephine is one of my better taskmistresses!

They are all my betters, of course, being female! But I particularly like being supervised and controlled by taskmistress Josephine for a number of reasons:

Firstly, she is beautiful – perhaps a little bit overweight, but still a very attractive young woman in her mid twenties. She has long, shoulder-length, dark hair and a very high-pitched, feminine – almost girlish – voice, which I like because I respond well to orders delivered by female voices. I think it is programmed into my maleslave DNA.

Secondly, she is sweet and kind insofar as she is one of those mistresses who does always flavour my slave gruel with the dirt from the soles of her own shoes. I know it is incredibly selfish of me to keep banging on about my own stomach, and I apologise for that. But having some flavour to my early-morning gruel is probably my one main pleasure in life – so wretched and miserable is the rest of my public slave existence licking clean female city streets! Experienced taskmistress Josephine understands that, and indulges me.

Thirdly, taskmistress Josephine always seems to wear the same pair of flat, black leather shoes to work – and they are a total joy to kiss! I must kiss all of my taskmistresses’ shoes or boots at the start and end of their shifts, by way of expressing my admiration for them, and I just adore the very unique and musty-leather smell of taskmistress Josephine’s, well-worn, black leather shoes.

Her shoes are always quite dusty and dirty – from which I deduce that she must not have a personal footslave of her own at home to take care of her footwear. I know for a fact that she has a live-in boyfriend, for she is often chatting to him on her mobile phone whilst I am hard at work on the streets beneath her. But, being a free man, her boyfriend would not, of course, be expected to take care of her dirty shoes. Such chores are considered beneath free men in the Gynarchy. Only slaves clean shoes!

But the perilous state of taskmistress Josephine’s footwear doesn’t bother me. Quite the opposite! I actually like kissing scuff-marked and bacteria-ridden footwear – as it adds to my sense of slavish humility to know that the superior, female wearer of the scruffy, black leather shoes doesn’t care that she is imposing her dirty and unkempt footwear on my footslave lips!

The taskmistresses all wear the same state-taskmistress uniform consisting of light blue shirts, navy blue fleeces, and matching navy blue slacks, but, oddly enough, their footwear is not provided as part of their uniform, and they are free to wear whatever they wish on their pretty feet within reason – shoes or boots; providing they are ‘dark’ in colour, by which is meant navy blue or black.

I believe that the regulations state that even the taskmistresses’ socks or stockings should be ‘dark’ in colour – but I have to say they don’t always seem to comply with that particular stipulation. Indeed, some of my young taskmistresses regularly wear white anklesocks tucked beneath the hems of their bootcut, navy blue, uniform trousers.

But mistress Josephine – as you might expect of a conscientious and diligent taskmistress like her – always wears suitably dark-coloured socks with her shoes; normally black or dark grey.

Today, as she stretches forward her right foot under my nose for my introductory kiss, thereby causing the hem of her right, bootcut trouser leg to ride up somewhat, I observe that she is wearing a familiar pair of short, black cotton ankle socks – the sort that only just cover her slightly podgy, white ankle bones.

I love these socks of mistress Josephine’s – especially the way the elasticated tops stretch over the very middle of her prominent, pasty-white anklebones. It means I can clearly see the individual stitches in the tops of her socks. The cute socks also match taskmistress Josephine’s grubby shoes – and not just by being black. They too, like the shoes, show signs of wear and tear, such as greying and thinning material in parts of the black cotton sock along her shapely, white instep; and this morning I can also observe an exciting, tiny, loose piece of stitching sticking up from the elasticated top of her right sock just below her outer ankle bone.

The final, reason why I admire taskmistress Josephine so much is that, sweet and kind young woman though she may be, she is also very strict, and quick to whip. All the taskmistresses carry a short and stocky, black leather whip known as a ‘bulls-pizzle’, which they gleefully bring down hard across my bare and kneeling back should they deem me to be slacking in my hard labour licking the streets. It is a whip that bruises, rather than cuts, but its sting is nevertheless considerably invigorating – and I have truly come to fear and respect my taskmistresses’ pizzles.

Because she is not averse to using it, I have also come to very much fear and respect mistress Josephine. Whenever I see those familiar, well-worn, black leather, flat, slip-on shoes in front of my face, I always, therefore, verbally acknowledge taskmistress Josephine’s absolute power and authority over me, and assure her of my complete compliance with her wishes and demands in the most humble of humble slave-speak that I can muster:

‘Oh pray, taskmistress Josephine, if it pleases you most glorious taskmistress Josephine, please don’t beat me today, most respected and all-powerful taskmistress Josephine! This dirty slave will be good today, taskmistress Josephine, and will work hard for the mistress! Oh pray mistress! Oh pray! God bless you mistress!’

I then respectfully kiss the toe of her arrogantly outstretched shoe. Her short, black, uniform-compliant sock creases fetchingly in front of my eyes as her white foot-muscles flex involuntarily in a, hopefully, pleasurable reaction to my humble kiss to the dusty, square toe of her black, leather, slip-on shoe. She keeps her right foot underneath my face for several seconds, so that I may kiss it several more times, before withdrawing her right foot from my grovelling lips and replacing it with her left.

Again, a brief expanse of short, black cotton sneaker-sock is visible to my eyes – although this sock is even lower down on her left foot. She must have gotten dressed quite quickly this morning – not bothering to ensure that her socks were nice and even on her podgy, white feet!

Taskmistress Josephine then graciously feeds me my shoe-flavoured gruel, and kicks me in the face with the squared-toe of her right foot in order to hurry me along with my meal. She is anxious, as ever, to get me out on the streets where I belong – licking pavements.

When I have finished my one, meagre meal of the day, she shaves me, as bearded slaves are not approved of in the Gynarchy (beards are considered much too manly for mere slaves such as I), and then attaches a chain onto the heavy, wooden slave-collar around my neck.

The collar, which marks me as a street-cleaning slave, is supplied by the Female State and helps me to keep my head suitably low and close to the ground. I am, of course, in common with most male slaves in the Gynarchy, kept permanently on my hands and knees (except when I am resting on my stomach in my humble slave-hole!).

In fact, like most male slaves of my vintage (some 30 long, hard years of public servitude on my knees), I’m sure I have lost the ability to walk upright. But, given that my whole raison d’être is to lick clean my female superiors’ dirty pavements, how else should it be?

I crawl out of my hole and follow humbly on my hands and knees after the beautiful taskmistress Josephine’s beautiful, flat heels - catching an occasional exciting flash of black sock and white ankleskin beneath the hems of her navy-blue trousers as she leads me up the stone staircase from my underground hole up onto the streets.

Taskmistress Josephine is already ignoring my pleas for compassion and mercy as she brings her pulls-pizzle down onto my naked slave back several times in order to hurry me along – as is her public duty to do so.

It is still dark outside; and cold. Mistress Josephine may be well wrapped up in her snug, navy-blue, uniform fleece, but I am, of course, naked - apart from my grubby, white slave shorts (and my wooden slave-collar).

At least the blows from taskmistress Josephine’s bulls-pizzle whip are helping to keep my back warm – though it pains me to admit it!

Once we are up on the street I lower my head to the ground and start to lick. A long day of street-licking now lies ahead of me! My instructions are to seek out female boot and shoe marks wherever I can find them on the dirty pavements, and to lap them up.

The ever diligent taskmistress Josephine helps me to find such dirty tread-marks also (except when she is chatting away to her boyfriend on her mobile phone), and will kindly point out female, dirty shoe-marks to me by positioning the toe of her right shoe directly in front of them.

I always like it when she does that, as the action of raising up her arrogant foot and pointing it forwards below my kneeling face towards the dirt means that I manage to catch yet another furtive glimpse of her short, black sneaker-sock inside her shoe.

And so it continues – as dawn breaks and the streets begin to fill with busy female commuters and pedestrians, all going about their important business above me. And my hard street-labour shall continue for the whole 8 hours of taskmistress Josephine’s shift; and beyond.

Of course, the more women there are around, the more careful I must be in my street licking, for I am not allowed to touch the footwear of other women as they walk along. I am considered beneath such things and must literally only lick the ground on which they walk.

Which is why kissing my taskmistresses’ actual shoe and bootleather is such a highlight in my dull and monotonous day. As taskmistress Josephine’s 8 hour shift eventually draws to a close, I start to salivate again (in spite of the dryness on my tongue caused by the constant licking of the dirty pavements) at the humbling prospect of kissing her now even dustier and grubbier shoes goodbye.

As I do so, I can’t help thinking also that her socks must surely be warmer and sweatier now inside her enclosed, black, leather, slip-on shoes – after some 8 hours of wandering the streets with myself in tow! The thought that her socks are now dirtier and smellier on her soft, white feet both intrigues and enamours me. I truly have nothing but the deepest respect for my taskmistress Josephine and her sweaty, black socks.

She hands me over to her friend and colleague, taskmistress Claire. Soon I am kissing the familiar, round toed and chunky-heeled, black leather, zip-up ankle boots of the slim and svelte, blonde-ponytailed, taskmistress Claire.

As I resume my humble street-licking task under mistress Claire’s close supervision, my sub-task is now to try to ascertain what type of socks she is wearing inside her supervisory boots!



Fable no. 19 – The Sockgazer

When you are a down-in-the-dirt footslave lying in the gutter, you mustn’t be gazing up at the stars. You must be gazing up at your superior mistress’s socks…

I have the inestimable honour of being the downtrodden, personal footslave of a beautiful and intelligent young woman who goes by the name of mistress Fiona. I am currently kneeling on the wooden floor under the kitchen table by my superior mistress’s black-socked feet.

Mistress is having breakfast before heading off to work, so she is already fully dressed for the office - apart from her jacket and shoes - in her crisp, white blouse; black, bootcut slacks; and plain, black ankle socks.

My mistress Fiona always lounges around her modest, one-bedroom, ground-floor apartment in her bare-socked feet. She never wears slippers or shoes in the house – not even in winter time. She only wears socks indoors – which is nice for me as her personal footslave, since I get to admire her socks in all their glory.

Of course, a part of me does worry that her black socks are picking up dust and dirt and other harmful bacteria – especially on the soles – as she wanders from room to room in her socked feet with myself in tow. It worries me because I know I shall be the one tasked with cleaning her dirty socks at the end of the day – inside my mouth!

Such niceties don’t seem to concern my mistress Fiona, however. All she cares about is feeling comfortable, and she likes to let her feet breathe inside her socks, without having to wear shoes, as she relaxes in her own home.

It is her choice – and I therefore have no say in the matter, even though my main business in life is the care and maintenance of her socks.

My mistress Fiona currently lives alone (apart from with me – her personal footslave; but I don’t count, of course). She does, however, have a steady boyfriend – my master David – who sometimes spends the night here in her apartment. He wasn’t here last night; it was a Thursday night and he tends to only stay at the weekend. So my beloved mistress Fiona only had my ugly slave-face for company in her bed last night, as, whenever master David is not around, my face must act as a hot water bottle for my mistress’s bare feet in bed.

Needless to say I am never allowed to actually get into the bed with my mistress. Ha! Ha! That would be ridiculous – I’m just a male slave! Ha! Ha!

No, my superior mistress, quite rightly, finds the idea of sharing her bed with a male footslave abhorrent – and, besides, I believe it’s against the law for a slave to sleep in the same bed as his mistress! I must, therefore, merely kneel at the end of her bed with only my face resting underneath the duvet, so that my mistress can rest her bare feet on my face and have her feet warmed by my slave-breath as I sleep fitfully on my knees.

Curiously, given her fondness for wearing socks around the flat, my mistress Fiona never wears bedsocks! Believe me, I do understand that I am immensely honoured and privileged that my face is regularly permitted to act as my mistress’s bare-foot warmer during the night!

And particularly so since my mistress Fiona is a beautiful, slim young woman in her late twenties, with dark, shoulder length hair. She wears glasses and is very clever. I believe she has a degree in Cosmology or something like that, though such things are way above my head!

Whilst my mistress Fiona concerns herself with the subject of inner and outer space, I must concern myself with much lower things – such as her inner and outer footwear: her socks, tights, shoes, sandals and boots. I am a humble sockgazer – not a stargazer like my erudite mistress Fiona!

I’m pleased to say that my mistress Fiona has a goodly collection (or should that be constellation?) of shoes and boots, but I know for sure which pair she will be wearing today – for she is a creature of habit and always wears the same pair of black leather, low heeled, slip-on shoes to work beneath her black, bootcut, office slacks.

Never boots – oddly enough. At least not to work. Not even in the depths of winter when the snow is on the ground! But I’m not complaining, for the fact that she wears low-cut shoes means that I get to observe her socks as I crawl around behind her heels and ankles throughout the day.

And looking at women’s socks whilst they are wearing them on their pretty feet inside their shoes is always, in my humble opinion, so much more satisfying than merely looking at the outside of their boot leather. It certainly is in my mistress Fiona’s case at least, as she has such shapely insteps and ankles – features which would be frustratingly hidden from my slavish view were she to wear her boots, even her smart, zip-up, black leather, ankle-length boots, all the time into work.

No - I am perfectly content with my mistress Fiona’s preference for wearing socks and shoes to her place of work, and I am truly honoured when it is time for me to gently and respectfully slide her black, slip-on shoes onto her black-socked feet, taking great care not to crease the socks on her smooth, white, young-womanly feet as I do so.

As I place the shoes onto my mistress’s feet, I particularly admire the way they hide the thinning and greying areas along her socked heels and insteps, leaving only the upper halves of the black ankle socks visible to the public beneath the hems of her bootcut trouser legs (at least when she is seated or standing with one shapely leg extended in front of the other) and thereby making the cotton socks look newer and fresher on her feet than they actually are.

But I know better, of course, for I have been slavishly-privileged to see the lower parts of her socks before her shoes go on!

For these particular black ankle socks are, it has to be said, quite a well-worn pair of my mistress Fiona’s socks. The have been repeatedly washed inside my slave mouth and are, consequently, beginning to show some considerable signs of wear and tear.

But that will be our little secret – mine, and mistress Fiona’s – though I very much doubt that she (or anyone else for that matter) really notices, or cares about, the state of her socks! She leaves such mundane matters to me – her personal footslave, even to the extent of deciding when the socks are no longer wearable, and need to be washed or replaced!

It’s quite a weighty responsibility for a down-in-the-dirt footslave such as myself – deciding when to finally discard my mistress’s old socks! But my mistress Fiona graciously delegates such decisions to me – her personal foot and sock slave – since she has even weightier maters to occupy her pretty mind, such as her forthcoming business meetings with her clients.

For although my mistress Fiona has a degree in Cosmology, she doesn’t work in that field. She works in the sales and marketing department of a large pharmaceutical company – selling their new beauty products.

Mistress Fiona catches the train into work daily, and so, having donned her black leather, slip-on shoes on her pretty, socked feet, I must crawl behind her black leather heels down the street every morning as she makes her way to the local, suburban train station. It’s at times like this that I’m really glad my beautiful, young, bespectacled mistress elects to wear bootcut slacks – with relatively wide hems – as it means they flap around her shapely ankles as she walks briskly towards the station, affording me, the humbly crawling footslave at her heels, the occasional furtive glimpse of her beloved, black ankle socks inside her shoes.

Perhaps even – if I’m very lucky – a flash of her smooth, white skin at the back of her ankles when she is running up the stairs at the railway station in order to cross over to Platform 2.

On the train itself I must lie on the dirty floor beneath her seat, my upturned left cheek acting as a footrest for the already dirty and dusty leather sole of my mistress’s right shoe, whilst the inner side of her left shoe rests directly in front of my slave nose and face. At such times I can’t really see my mistress’s black anklesock on her left foot. I am only vaguely aware of its commanding presence above me as I am obliged to stare at the creases in the black leather along the lower, inner side of her left shoe.

Still, it gives me an opportunity to study and admire, close up, all the little specks of street dust and dirt that have inevitably already accumulated on my mistress’s otherwise pristine left shoe (I know it was pristine when she started out on her journey this morning as I spent two whole hours tongue-shining her shoes as per usual last night before retiring to the end of her bed as her facial foot-warmer).

Occasionally, as the train speeds its way along the track, my mistress Fiona subconsciously flexes her pretty, feminine foot muscles inside her shoe as she reads her paper – causing the shoe leather to crease and fold all along the shapely instep which is resting on the floor in front of my face. Pathetic though it is, I truly live for such moments – for the movement in the shoe reminds me that I am serving at the feet of a beautiful, living, breathing young woman who is my infinite superior and better and who towers above me in every sense of the word: intellectually; physically; morally; spiritually; and, of course, sexually.

As soon as we enter her office which she shares with three other female employees (although I’m proud to say my mistress Fiona is head of her section) I humbly make myself comfortable underneath her feet at her desk – only this time not so much as a foot-rest, but as a foot-admirer.

You see, my superior mistress doesn’t like to rest her feet on my face at work. Instead she has instructed me merely to kneel at the bottom of her swivel chair, to bow my head to the metal footrest on which she positions her feet, and to observe and admire her socks and shoes throughout the day whilst she goes about her important sales business – ringing and emailing her many clients.

Compared to what some poor slaves have to do day in and day out – hard, manual labour in the slave mines for example – I acknowledge I’ve got it pretty easy. All I have to do is gaze adoringly at my superior mistress’s shoes and socks!

Of course, having said that, it is deeply demeaning to have to kneel at a young woman’s feet all day long, studying and admiring the creases and folds in her black, office socks and shoes as she sits above you. But it’s not exactly what you would call demanding work! The greatest risk I face is being distracted by the pretty feet and footwear of my mistress’s female office colleagues – particularly when they come over to their supervisor’s (my mistress Fiona’s) desk in order to ask her advice about something.

They all come over to refer to her from time to time, for she is highly thought of amongst her junior colleagues, and I am therefore now quite familiar with all their various footwear preferences – especially their choice of socks.

Take miss Michelle, for example – my mistress Fiona’s second in command, and a pretty, young redhead in her early to mid twenties. Miss Michelle has a penchant for wearing white, calf-length bootsocks over black leggings inside her white, calf-length, patterned, cowboy-style boots. I must say the tops of her white socks look absolutely wonderful against the backdrop of her plain, black leggings as they tower above me – the white, cotton socks all creased and crumpled over her polyester leggings above the fancy-stitched, upper rims of her white cowboy boots.

Because mistress Michelle is also a little on the plump side her socks are quite stretched, as well as crumpled, over her fatty calf-muscles. Oh what I wouldn’t give to nose the stretched, cotton stitching on the top of those creased, white, calf-length bootsocks!

And then there is mistress Jennie. She is actually a slightly older woman – about my age I would say. In her early forties; bleached blonde; hair tied tightly back in a ponytail which, arguably, is a hairstyle better suited to a younger woman. But be that as it may, mistress Jennie never fails to impress with her smart pair of stylish lace-up, black leather ankle boots with chunky, round heels worn beneath her black, office trousers.

And just occasionally – when mistress Jennie pulls up a swivel chair and is sitting beside my mistress at her desk, cross-legged – I catch a pleasing glimpse of the elasticated top of one of her black and red, ankle length bootsocks. The pair of socks I am thinking of have a hugely appealing and exciting, thin, red trim at the top of the otherwise apparently all-black, cotton elastic – though I often find myself wondering whether the toe and heel areas of mistress Jennie’s black socks may also be red.

Of course, I am unlikely to ever find out – not unless by chance some day mistress Jennie happens to be wearing those socks when she unlaces her office ankleboot in order to take it off and remove an annoying stone!

But I digress.

You see what I mean about how easy it is for a pathetic footslave’s mind to wander away from his own mistress’s socks and shoes? There is constant temptation all around me as I kneel on the office floor beneath my mistress Fiona’s workstation!

Take that miss Deborah, for example. She’s the newest member of my mistress’s team. She must be no more than about 20 years old and, naturally, she still has a lot to learn about the cosmetics business. Therefore she is frequently referring to my mistress Fiona for advice – often pulling up a swivel chair to sit beside my mistress Fiona in order to be tutored.

At such times, I have to admit, I am sorely tempted by the sight of mistress Deborah’s pretty, 20 year old feet and ankle bones. Like my mistress Fiona, you see, she is a creature of habit and always wears the same delicious pair of shoes to work – only in her case she likes to wear cream-coloured ballet pumps on her bare, soft, white feet beneath her skintight, black leggings which reach down to just above her shapely ankle bones.

Mistress Deborah is, from my perspective, an exception to the rule, for she is one young woman whom I am actually glad does not wear socks inside her cream ballet pumps – for her bare feet are exceptionally nice to look at; very soft and smooth looking, although what really does for me is a particularly prominent blue vein running down the otherwise smooth top of her right foot. Oh the times I have dreamt of running my nose slavishly along that vein – and kissing and worshipping it! For it carries the very lifeblood to mistress Deborah’s sweet and natural, female foot!

There I go – fantasising again! I think, to be honest, that my mistress Fiona knows only too well that my nose tends to twitch whenever mistress Deborah’s ballet pumps are in its vicinity. But she knows equally well that there is nothing I can actually do to satisfy my cravings over miss Deborah’s pretty feet. The most I can ever hope for is to be allowed to respectfully kiss the soft, creamy-white, rounded toes of miss Deborah’s soft, leather ballet pumps, and even then only with my own mistress Fiona’s express permission – something which she does occasionally grant me by way of a reward to mistress Deborah in achieving a new sale of the company’s feminine beauty products.

My mistress Fiona recognises that miss Deborah – like all young women – aspires to have her own personal footslave one day, and that having her ballet pumps humbly kissed by her boss’s slave makes her feel valued and important.

And mistress Fiona is a good manageress – she likes all her junior colleagues on her team to feel valued and important.

Even – dare I say it – me! For my clever mistress Fiona clearly knows that a footslave’s idle nose is a dangerous thing, and she will therefore, from time to time, order me to nuzzle the side of her black, office ankle socks whilst she sits at her desk busily typing on her computer – just to ensure my footslave-nose feels wanted, stays out of trouble, and doesn’t invade mistress Deborah’s – or any other young woman’s – personal foot privacy!

I do indeed feel valued when I am nuzzling my mistress Fiona’s workaday socks! Usually, by mid-morning, they will be quite creased on her pretty feet – the inevitable result of the simple act of her walking and moving about in her socks and shoes. And so, as the day goes on, I get to play pathetic, little footslave-games as it were, with the creases in my mistress’s black anklesocks – running my nose along each crease in the black, cotton material; attempting to count the stitches in each individual sock-crease; even trying to smooth out the creases with the tip of my footslave nose.

Of course, I’m sure my mistress Fiona must enjoy the sensation of having her socks nuzzled at work by her devoted, male footslave – else she wouldn’t give me her permission to do it! I think it helps her to relax, although she never speaks to me about it, or thanks me for my humble, sock-nosing efforts. She is always too busy on the phone or sending emails to her clients.

At lunchtime she will usually meet up in a small, outdoor café with her boyfriend David (or ‘master David’ as I must call him) who works in a nearby Insurance company.

Master David doesn’t like me. I think that, even though he is a free man and therefore held in much higher esteem by my mistress than I am – as, indeed, he is by all young women - he is nevertheless a bit jealous of me as I kneel at his attractive, bespectacled girlfriend’s feet whilst she sips her soft drink and eats her sandwich seated opposite him at the café table.

I therefore always make a special effort to be discreet and unobtrusive whenever master David is around. Out of my slavish respect for him I will not nuzzle or touch mistress Fiona’s socks with my slave nose or lips in his presence – however inviting they may be to my humbly bowed face (unless, of course, my mistress Fiona or master David were to specifically order me to nuzzle her socks in his presence – although, thus far, they never have done).

I therefore just keep my head down and humbly stare – stare at my superior mistress’s socks and shoes under the table. I try not to even eavesdrop on my superiors’ conversation as they hold hands and whisper sweet nothings to one another above me.

My ears will only prick up when I hear master David asking my mistress Fiona if she is satisfied with my efforts that day – or does she want him to whip me for her? Since she started going out with master David some 6 months ago, my mistress Fiona no longer bothers to physically discipline me herself. She leaves such matters of physical discipline to her strong and manly boyfriend, and so over the past few months I have truly come to know and fear the sting of a well laid-on whip as the stripes on my back will testify!

Even master David’s speculative and polite enquiry about my foot-slavish performance prompts me to even humbler efforts at his girlfriend’s feet – and I focus my eyes and my inferior mind once again on the stitching along the side of my mistress Fiona’s exposed sock on he right foot beneath her bootcut trouser leg.

But, fortunately for me, my sweet and kind mistress Fiona tells master David that she is content, if not totally happy, with my performance and attitude that day, and she quickly moves on to enquire whether, what with it being a Friday and all that, master David is planning to spend the night at her place?

He indicates that he is, and my heart sinks just as hers must be lifting. For I know that tonight, instead of acting as mistress Fiona’s footwarmer in bed, I shall be spending the night lying face up in the gutter outside her bedroom window in the secluded alleyway at the back of her ground-floor apartment. I shall be forced to listen to my mistress Fiona and master David making mad, passionate love inside the bedroom, whilst my mistress’s dirty, black ankle socks – the very socks she has on her pretty feet and ankles in front of my kneeling face right now – shall be resting over my upturned nose and mouth. They will have been placed there disdainfully by master David, along with the humiliating command that I smell his girlfriend’s dirty, stinky socks whilst he enjoys her warm and soft, perfumed, womanly body!

Master David even calls me by the disparaging slave-name of ‘Sockboy’ as he delivers his girlfriend’s discarded, dirty, sweaty socks to my face – thereby, in one fell swoop, eloquently summing up the two major facets of my miserable, slavish existence:

1) That I am the servant of female socks; and

2) That I am a ‘boy’ and not a real man like him (even though I must be at least 10 years’ his senior).

He will then laugh at me as he, the manly victor, walks away from the pathetic loser-slave lying in his girlfriend’s gutter, and takes his spoils in my mistress’s soft, warm bed.

Still, I could never do what he is doing – make love to a superior woman and satisfy her womanly needs. For I am just a young woman’s sock-watcher – forced to admire her socks be they on her otherwise bare feet, or whilst she is wearing then inside her office shoes, or, as now, whilst they are lying across my upturned face as she makes love to a real man just a few feet away from me inside her warm and cosy apartment.

Such is my humble, sock-obsessed life! It may be a bright and starry night tonight, but I’m not looking at the stars, for I’m just a dumb-ass sockgazer.

I am lying in the gutter, staring at my mistress’s socks!


P.S. What do you mean my mistress Fiona’s degree must be in cosmetology? What do I know? Like I said, I’m just a dumb-ass sockgazer, staring into the blackness of my sweet mistress’s outer socks!




Fable no. 18 – The Courting Couple

My 21 year old mistress, mistress Julia, is quite short, so whenever she is kissing her stud-boyfriend, 30 year old Darren (master Darren to me) on the lips, she has to stand on tiptoe.

I, of course, must remain humbly kneeling in my superiors’ presence whilst they affectionately kiss one another, and that means kneeling discreetly, with my head suitably bowed, beside my mistress Julia’s tiptoed feet.

Today she is wearing soft, navy blue and yellow, canvas deck-shoes with dirty-white rubber soles – canvas shoes which crease and fold fetchingly in front of my eyes as she stands on tiptoe to kiss her beloved Darren. Her right shoe, in particular, is very close to my face – meaning that I can not only observe the creases and folds in the canvas and rubber of her right shoe, but also the tiny traces of dirt all along the aforementioned, white, rubbery sole.

I can actually see the traces of what my superior mistress Julia has been walking in on the raised-up sole of her light, canvas shoe! I notice, in particular, a dirty globule of thick, wet mud stuck to the side of her grey-white, rubbery sole as it is partially and girlishly raised up into the air due to the tippy-toed positioning of my sweet mistress’s dainty feet.

As I dutifully concentrate on looking at my mistress Julia’s shoesole-mud, I wonder whether her boyfriend, master Darren, who towers above me, is even aware of the fact that his beautiful, blonde girlfriend has a dirty mud-stain on the sole of her shoe?

Probably not - because, unlike me, he is above such things. Being a free man he is better than me, and need not concern himself with such mundane matters as the dirt on his girlfriend’s shoes. It will never soil his lips, because my mistress Julia will wish to keep his manly lips fresh and clean so that she can enjoy kissing them again and again.

She will have absolutely no compunction, however, about ordering me to lick the mud off her discarded, canvas deck shoes later on this evening – perhaps whilst she and master Darren are making love in her bedroom – for I am just her personal footslave and it’s my job to lick clean her dirty shoes!

As I watch my muddy titbit slowly solidifying on the sole of her shoe, I hear the happy, courting couple sigh with mutual and loving pleasure above me. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to kiss a woman on the lips – to give her a different kind of pleasure from that which she derives from merely having her dirty footwear kissed.

But, of course, all such wondering on my part is entirely pointless – for it will never happen. No young woman worth her salt would ever dream of allowing her dirty footslave to kiss her on the lips!

And certainly not my self-important mistress Julia!

The highest honour I can ever aspire to is to kiss my sweet mistress Julia’s bare footskin – and that inspiring thought now compels me to look at the bare skin of her right foot above the upper rim of her low-cut, canvas deck shoe and below the stitched hem of her blue denim, jean leg.

My mistress Julia has very nice, white footskin – soft and suntanned, with just the right amount of natural vein on display. I’m sure I can detect the blood pulsing through the most prominent vein on her tippy-toed, right foot by way of a pleasurable reaction to the erotic sensations she is now receiving courtesy of master Darren’s masterful lips.

I have to admit that I do sometimes prefer it when my mistress wears socks whilst she is kissing master Darren, for then I get to observe the nice creases and folds in the cotton material of her socks as she stands on tiptoe in front of my mesmerized, kneeling face.

My mistress Julia often wears socks with her canvas deck-shoes – and she has such a sweet collection of feminine socks. My favourites are her white, lacy ankle socks - as I can clearly see the yellowy-brown sweat stains and marks from the insides of her shoes on them, and the frilly, lacy tops of her short socks tickle my nose whilst I am respectfully kissing those selfsame, sweaty sock-marks.

But today is too warm for my mistress Julia to be wearing socks inside her shoes. She doesn’t just wear her socks for my benefit! She only wears them for practical reasons - when they help to keep her pretty, feminine feet nice and warm and comfortable inside her shoes or boots.

And so today she is barefoot in side her shoes, and the only creases and folds I can observe in her right foot, apart from those in the soft and flexible, canvas material of her pretty, navy-blue and yellow deck shoe, are the creases and folds in her bare, suntanned footflesh – particularly around her shapely heel – as she raises herself up on tiptoe to make mouth to mouth contact with master Darren.

I don’t even look at master Darren’s feet, for I am not besotted by him. And besides there is so much to hold my pathetic, footslavish attention on my mistress Julia’s feet - the rapidly drying dirt stain on the rubbery, white sole of her shoe; the creases and folds in her navy-blue and yellow shoe canvas and bare, suntanned footskin; the blood racing through her prominent, blue foot-vein.

Yes, my own pupils are every bit as much dilated as my sexually aroused mistress Julia’s must now be – thanks to the fascinating sights in front of my pathetic, kneeling, footslave face.

I cringe in total awe at my betters’ feet as they, for their part, forget all about me – the dirty, lonely footslave kneeling dutifully at his besotted mistress’s tiptoed feet.




Fable no. 17 – Facing Up (To My Past)

I am employed as a welcome-doormat in the lobby entrance to a large and very upmarket, ladies’ department store.

Hour after hour, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, I lie in the ground, face upwards, so that my female betters - the stuck-up young women who are employed by the department store, and their equally supercilious female customers - can set foot on me, and wipe the dirty soles of their superior, feminine shoes, sandals and boots across my upturned, downmarket face as they enter the upmarket department store.

My face is, therefore, constantly stained by superior young women’s shoe and boot dirt as they go about their much more important business of selling or buying ladies’ fashion, without giving me – the human doormat on which they wipe their feet – a second thought. I suppose you could call me a ladies’ fashion victim, if you wanted to feel sorry for me!

I suspect that many of my female betters don’t even register in their superior, feminine consciousness that I am there at all as they enter the store. They just unthinkingly scrape their dirty, designer shoe and bootsoles across my face as they chatter away to their friends and boyfriends on their mobile phones. For I am just a thing; a male object on which they can wipe the soles of their pretty shoes and boots.

To reinforce my status as an animate object, I am completely forbidden to converse with my female betters, or to utter any sounds whatsoever – for talking doormats are considered so passé!

No – I am just a women’s dumb, full-time bootscraper – and such human bootscrapers are two a penny in this particular city! Every female office block and major department store worth its salt has one. Nobody cares about us. We are – quite literally since we are effectively buried face up in the ground – the lowest of the low.

And that’s exactly as it should be. For each and every public doormat-footslave is a punishee. We have all been convicted of serious crimes against femininity, and sentenced to serve as humble doormats for the rest of our unnatural lives.

I didn’t always occupy such a lowly position, you see! I used to be a public footslave at a prestigious, sit-down bootlick-stand in the Central Town Square! But I was demoted and sentenced by the Female Court to life as a public doormat following my conviction for ‘impertinence whilst carrying out my public slave-duties’; I’m ashamed to say that I upset a young woman-customer when I failed to completely remove some hardened and blackened chewing gum from the sole of her bright yellow wellington boot, and I insultingly ventured to suggest to her that no amount of footslave-licking would ever get it off!

The offending gum had just been so entrenched in the thick, black treads of the young, blonde woman’s rubbery, yellow boot that, in my humble opinion, no amount of licking and sucking on it, or even scraping with my teeth, could ever have removed it completely. And I told her as much!

The young, blonde woman in question had therefore reported me to her aunt – who just happened to be a district, female judge.

I was therefore arrested by the Female Police just a few hours later, and hauled before the Female Court, where my accuser – still wearing her bright yellow Wellington boots – showed the Court (her Aunt) the evidence of my insolent ineptitude in not removing the sticky chewing gum from the sole of her right boot, and then had the satisfaction of seeing me sentenced to doormat-slavery for life – a fitting punishment for my crime, in the opinion of the good lady Judge and her niece, since I would be spending the rest of my miserable existence paying penance beneath the dirty soles of women’s boots and shoes for my abject failure to properly clean one particular charming, young, blonde woman’s rubber-booted soles!

And so that’s how I ended up here – some ten years ago now. The female department store agreed to take the convicted footslave on as its doormat by way of doing their public duty. They feed me and water me in my hole in the ground – and in return I wipe the soles of their female employees’ and customers’ dirty feet with my face.

I deserve all I get! And what I get is dirt – female feet-dirt!

Of course, as I stare up at my female betters as they unthinkingly wipe their feet on me, I do often hanker for my glory days as a public bootlicker. Then I could converse with my customers as I licked and tongue-shined their dirty shoes and boots. And it was a much more skilled job than being a public doormat – since I wasn’t just cleaning (or attempting to clean!) the leather soles of their footwear, but also the leather uppers. I got to taste every part of my customers’ glorious, feminine footwear: from boot-zippers; to thick, greyish-white sneaker laces; to metal boot and shoe buckles; and even, on occasion, sheer nylon stockings and soft, cotton or woollen socks!

Ahh – those were the days! Now I get to taste nothing but dirty soles – invariably leather soles. The soles of smart, but street-soiled, feminine shoes, sandals and boots as they enter the shop. Smart they may be, but they are still the nastiest, dirtiest, foulest-tasting part of a lady’s footwear, as she nonchalantly drags her sweet, feminine footwear over my upturned and confined mouth, nose and face.

And there are high-heels, of course, for the fashion store’s female customers are, unsurprisingly, interested in highly fashionable and stylish, feminine footwear; I therefore get to taste spiked heels at the backs of smart, court shoes or stylish, pointy-toed, knee-length boots which dig painfully into the soft flesh of my dirty doormat-face as their powerful, female owners uncaringly scrape them across my face in order to divest them of embarrassing street dirt and mud before entering the plush surroundings of the upmarket department store.

It can be quite a painful existence being a doormat-footslave, thanks to spiked heels! My poor face is often cut and scarred by these rich ladies’ footwear.

But I have no choice other than to ‘face up’ to my responsibilities – since I am buried permanently in the ground and looking up – up at my female betters as their knee-high, black leather, designer boots tower above me, caressing their shapely calf-muscles and dominating my restricted field of vision below the supercilious and disdainful glances of their superior, female owners who, quite literally, look down on me – the humble, dumb, human doormat; the anonymous and instantly forgettable footslave-criminal who is being punished for some crime or other which they have no knowledge of, and don’t really care about.

They simply trust the judgement of the Female Court.

To be honest, the physical pain of having high-heels continually digging into my upturned face is as nothing compared to the mental anguish I suffer when I remember how far I have fallen from sweet, feminine grace and mercy. When I think back to the relationship I used to have with my female customers on my bootlick-stand – especially with my regulars. Talking with them; acknowledging their curt and abrupt orders in humble slave-speak; fulfilling their idiosyncratic wishes and fancies – for each and every customer had her own little whims with which I became very familiar over time.

This point was brought home to me in particularly sharp relief just yesterday afternoon – and not just because the superior young woman concerned was wearing brown, knee-length, zip-up, leather boots with metal-tipped spiked heels!

I recognised immediately the smug grin on the wearer of the boots’ pretty face from down below as she stood imperiously above me, scraping the dirty, mud-splattered treads of the sole on her right boot across my upturned face. It was mistress Ellen – one of my former regulars on my erstwhile public bootlick-stand!

I had not seen her – or had the privilege of serving her footwear – in over 10 years. But it was unmistakably her! She looked slightly older, of course! She must be in her early to mid forties by now! Her face was also somewhat slimmer. She had lost some weight! And she had dyed her hair a rich auburn-red (I recall it used to be dyed blonde!) But there could be no mistaking that ultra-smug grin of feminine superiority – this was most definitely the one and only mistress Ellen!

Oh how the memories came flooding back as her bootsole-mud flooded onto my upturned face and down into my receptacle-mouth! Sweet mistress Ellen – always one of my more stuck-up customers on my erstwhile public bootlick stand! Always very demanding when it came to the tongue-shining of her superior footwear!

I remember that she had favoured ankle-boots back in the day – wedge-heeled, square-toed, zip up, black leather ankle boots, in keeping with the style and fashion of those times a decade or so ago.

And socks! More delicious, ankle-length bootsocks a public footslave could not have hoped to meet than the ankle-socks of mistress Ellen! I remember she had nearly always worn dark-coloured socks inside her ubiquitous, black, leather ankle-boots. I now recalled with particular fondness a pair of dark, purple-coloured socks she had often worn along with her black, denim jeans. I remember that the contrast between the purple of the socks and the black of her jeans and ankle-boots had always particularly enamoured me – and mistress Ellen knowingly used to indulge me by letting me nose the soft, elasticated tops of her purple ankle-length, bootsocks as I licked clean the upper rims of her black leather boots.

She would tease me as I nosed the tops of her purple socks, asking me if I was liking it, and directing me to smooth out the creases in the tops of her socks with my nose.

I remember she would occasionally even order me to unzip the sides of her ankle boots with my slave-teeth, so that I may honour her purple socks by sniffing them whilst she still had them on inside her boots! I remember that those purple ankle length socks had contained a unique and very fetching flowery pattern on the cotton stitching just over her shapely, outer ankle bone, and mistress Ellen used to delight in making me trace the pattern of her flowery, purple sock-stitching with the sensitive tip of my public-bootslave nose.

Looking back on it, I suspect mistress Ellen used to get as much pleasure from the sensation of my humble sock-nosing as I did!

I wonder where those purple ankle-socks are now?

I see, however - as she towers above me in the lobby entrance to the ladies’ department store - that mistress Ellen is now wearing flesh-coloured, nylon stockings beneath her knee-length, black skirt today. She certainly never used to wear nylons – or, indeed, skirts - back in the day. Always trousers (or jeans) and socks with her ubiquitous, black leather, ankle length boots! But I have to admit that these finest denier, flesh-coloured nylons sure look good on Mistress Ellen’s shapely legs above the rims of her knee-high boots right now! Oh how I wish she would permit me to unzip the sides of her stylish, knee-high, brown leather boots today that I may nose her shapely, nylon-stockinged anklebones – just for old times’ sake!

I don’t much care if they are nylon stockings or tights! My only concern is with the areas covering mistress Ellen’s precious and dainty feet inside her boots. For, as I am a footslave, that is the only area of her nylons I am fit to concern myself with - the stinkiest, sweatiest parts; the warm reinforced toe and heels areas.

I yearn to nose and sniff them – trace the plain pattern in the nylon stitching with my footslave-nose - just as I used to nose, and sniff, and trace the fancy pattern in the stitching of her purple, ankle length, cotton bootsocks all those years ago!

Ha! Little chance of that, I fancy – and let’s face it , even if she did bestow such an honour upon me today, my mouth is no position to unzip boot, for my gormless, useless face is well and truly fixed in the ground – looking upwards; upwards at the dirty sole of mistress Ellen’s right, knee-high boot.

Mistress Ellen! I can’t believe it! It almost seems like she has never been away – even if her choice of bootwear has evidently now changed from ankle to knee length. She would have been in her early thirties back then. I remember she had just gotten married before my demise and sentencing at the behest of the good lady judge’s niece - so mistress Ellen’s life got better at exactly the same time I was sent down.

Truly fortune is on her side – judging by her expensive-looking, knee-high, brown leather boots and her sheer, finest-denier, nylon stockings. And rightly so; for mistress Ellen is now, and always was, my successful, female better and I am just a lowly, male loser-slave – not fit to lick the soles of her powerful and successful boots!

Even though fate has decreed that is precisely what I must now do!

Mistress Ellen looks like she is now a truly rich and powerful youngish-woman. Her brown leather boots may be dirty – but they are also designer. I can see the designer label on the muddy sole of her right boot as she scrapes it over my forehead!

I wonder if she recognises me – her erstwhile public bootlicker? After all, like her I must have changed somewhat in appearance, although unlike her I must be uglier – my face wizened and cut from all the female shoe and boot scrapings I have had to endure during my 10 years of unrelenting servitude as a ladies’ public doormat! In addition, I know my ugly slave-face is more or less permanently caked in mud – ladies’ boot mud (somewhat ironic when you think that my dirty face probably spreads as much muck onto the soles of a lady’s designer boots as it manages to remove!)

Yes – I’m sure mistress Ellen doesn’t recognise me. My cares and woes as a public doormat-slave have aged me terribly. But, on a positive note, they do say that old men’s faces make much better doormats. The extra wrinkles on our wizened old faces help to extract more of the dirt from the young women’s superior, feminine bootsoles.

I take some comfort in that thought.

I yearn to speak to mistress Ellen – to verbally greet her and bless her for once again gracing me with her dirty footwear, albeit in such straightened and humiliating circumstances. I know, of course, that she could not possibly harbour any respect or fondness for her dirty, erstwhile ankle-boot licker – especially not now that he is nothing more than a department store’s public-doormat! But my own heart is racing as I observe mistress Ellen’s still shapely, booted calf-muscle loom over my face as she nonchalantly drags the sole of her expensive, spiked-heeled boot across my helpless face.

I can tell by the somewhat glazed expression in her pretty, brown eyes that she doesn’t recognise me – or care about me. Her spiked metal bootheel digs down unthinkingly into the side of my cheek – distorting it; stretching it; opening my mouth wider by default so that yet more of her dirty bootmud can find its way into my doormat-slave mouth and down my doormat-slave throat.

Ha! Ha! She must do this dozens of times a day – wipe her feet on some faceless, human doormat-slave as she enters various office buildings for her important business meetings. For she is clearly a successful, rich and powerful businesswoman, coming to spend her hard-earned cash on a new pair of designer boots!

Why would she recognise or remember a dirty, public footslave from her distant past? And even if she did – what would she do? Greet me? Say how nice it is to see me again? Ask me how I am? Opine that I am looking well?

Ha! Ha! Hardly!

I’m just so far beneath her now I don’t even exist in her superior, feminine consciousness. Her supercilious grin of innate superiority is a wholly subconscious one – indelibly etched on her successful, pretty, female face.

Just as the tread-marks from numerous ladies’ boot and shoes are indelibly etched on mine, as I silently face up to my doormat-responsibilities – and extract the mud from mistress Ellen’s stylish, brown leather bootsoles onto my upturned, dumb-ass, wrinkly face.

Having wiped her feet on me, mistress Ellen disappears into the shop, and out of my humble life again, but at least, like all the other ladies entering the store, she has uncaringly left her mark on me – and not just on my footslave-psyche; but on my wizened, old doormat-face!





Fable no. 16 – Down, but not out

Mistress Lisa, I happen to know, has been having a hard time of it, of late. She is the talk of the office!

Recently divorced; an alleged mental breakdown from which she is only just recovering with the help of medication; demotion due to some sort of irregularity with her finances; and reported catfights with other female members of staff in the office.

I get to hear about it all as I lick the office ladies’ feet and shoes in their communal coffee-lounge in my capacity as the office footslave. Not that any of the superior mistresses discuss such matters with me directly as they drink their coffee and nibble on their biscuits. I, being a humble male footslave, am well and truly beneath being involved in any such, superior office-girly gossip.

No, it’s just that I get to overhear all the rumours and scandal as the beautiful office ladies discuss such matters with one another whilst I kneel and attend to their tired feet and footwear underneath the coffee table.

To be honest, they probably don’t even register that I am in the room, as I am merely an unobtrusive, human foot-cleaner kneeling at their outstretched feet whilst they sit on their comfortable, coffee-table chairs.

But I do get to hear all the office gossip, and that’s why I understand the awkward silence when the subject of the gossip – miss Lisa – suddenly enters the lounge.

The other women actually drink up and leave, but mistress Lisa appears determined to stay and enjoy her elevenses regardless. It is clear that she is something of an office-outcast at present – being ‘sent to Coventry’ as the saying goes. I think the final straw for many was when she, allegedly, kicked and punched the popular miss Abigail from accounts.

Slim and petite, with round, horn-rimmed spectacles and curly, shoulder-length blonde hair, mistress Lisa may look like a somewhat fragile and delicate wallflower, but, even before her current problems, she had developed a reputation for volatility and lashing out.

I gather that’s how her husband managed to get a divorce – something quite rare in the Gynarchy. But husband-beating is one of the few grounds for divorce in the Gynarchy – since free men are protected by law from physical punishment at the hands of women.

Only male slaves may be punched and beaten!

But, volatile and violent outcast or not, the troubled mistress Lisa is still my infinite superior and better – deserving of my undying footslavish obedience and respect. For I am one such slave that she may lawfully punch and beat – should she feel so inclined.

And so, after she has made herself her coffee and seated herself down by the coffee table with a glossy magazine to read, I crawl over to her feet from my resting position in the corner of the room, and bow my head to her feet ready for some humble foot-service:

‘God bless you, mistress Lisa. God bless you for gracing me with your presence. Please may I be permitted to pay homage to the mistress’s feet?’

It’s always considered polite to ask a mistress before kissing her feet. She might not wish to be disturbed.

‘You may kiss my shoes, slave,’ she responds curtly, flicking through the pages of her glossy, showbiz gossip magazine.

Ironic, really!

Mistress Lisa is, as always, wearing her ubiquitous, black, office ballet flats and short, black ankle socks beneath her dark blue, bootcut, officewear slacks.

As I lower my male lips, with her female permission, to the pretty, leather bow on the rounded toe-end of her now obligingly outstretched ballet flat on the end of her right foot, I can observe several little balls of black sock lint on the exposed area of her black, sneaker-style, ankle sock.

A somewhat selfish thought occurs to me. Perhaps, if mistress Lisa is feeling a bit down - what with everything that is currently going on in her life - she will graciously permit me to attempt to cheer her up by kissing her directly on the sock? Surely the feel of my humble, slave lips through the soft material of her black, cotton sock would stimulate and excite her – thereby helping to take her mind off things?

I wouldn’t normally be so bold as to suggest such an intimate thing to a superior mistress, but the little, black balls of fresh sock lint are just crying out to be kissed! And I really can’t think of a better way to express my undying, unconditional admiration for the outcast-mistress despite what others may think of her! Humiliatingly demoted and impecunious though she may be, she is still my superior and better – and always will be; however far she may fall from feminine grace!

And so, having paid my respects to the toe of her soft, black leather shoe, I pray to her sock, to be permitted to kiss it:

‘Oh pray, mistress Lisa, if it pleases you superior and most respected mistress Lisa, this dirty, humble footslave begs the mistress to permit him to kiss her pretty, black sock, if you would be so kind to this dirty and lowly, male footslave, most sweet and kind, feminine mistress Lisa, as this slave truly yearns to pay homage to the mistress’s superior sock, if you would deign to grant him your permission, superior mistress Lisa!’

Mistress Lisa may be down, but she is evidently not out – for however low she may be feeling, she is not about to allow a humble, down-in-the-dirt, office footslave to dictate what he does with his footslave-lips:

‘SHUT UP, SLAVE! I SAID THAT YOU CAN KISS MY SHOES! IF YOUR DIRTY LIPS GO ANYWHERE NEAR MY SOCKS I’LL SLICE THEM OFF! NOW GET ON WITH IT AND JUST DO WHAT YOU ARE TOLD!’

And with that she reaches down to slap me across the face with the open palm of her petite, feminine, but stingingly hard, right hand.

As I said, there is no law against hitting a slave in the Gynarchy. Indeed, there are laws requiring it!

I am suitably chastened and humbled.

I apologise at once to mistress Lisa, and her socks, for my impertinent request, for I fear that in such a mood she might well be prepared to carry out her threat to slice off my disobedient slave-lips:

‘Oh pray mistress Lisa… please forgive this dirty slave his impertinence, mistress. This slave humbly obeys the mistress and respects her wishes. This slave assures the mistress that his dirty lips will not touch the mistress’s superior sock as he pays his slavish homage to her pretty shoe. Oh pray mistress! Pray forgive me mistress! Pray have mercy on this impudent slave, mistress!’

And without any further ado I respectfully place my repeated, penitent kisses onto the toe of the disturbed mistress Lisa’s once again outstretched, black leather ballet flat, taking great care not to allow my upper lip to stray onto the forbidden material of her plain, black sneaker-sock.

She says nothing more as, glowering into her magazine above me through her horn-rimmed glasses, she eventually replaces her right foot with her left beneath my still stinging face.

Again I kiss only black, leather female shoe – not black, cotton female sock.

Mistress Lisa finishes her coffee and leaves the coffee-lounge just as soon as another young woman enters the room.

It is the raven-haired mistress Abigail from Accounts – the very same young woman whom mistress Lisa had reportedly attacked just a few days ago! I recognise her familiar high-heeled, shiny red leather pumps and tan-coloured, seemed, nylon stockings beneath her bright red, knee-length skirt.

I breathe a sigh of relief. That was a close shave for an impudent slave! I sense that I had very nearly become mistress Lisa’s next victim – not that there would have been any comeback on her if she had hurt me! In fact, it would probably have enhanced her tarnished reputation in the office – rehabilitated her somewhat!

For now, however, reddening the office footslave’s cheeks with the palm of her pretty hand is clearly not enough to rehabilitate her in miss Abigail’s eyes:

‘How can you kiss the feet of that tart, dirty slave?’ asks the raven-haired miss Abigail soon after her blonde rival, miss Lisa, has left the room.

I sense I may now be in some trouble with the young woman from Accounts who, by all accounts, was now shacked up with mistress Lisa’s ex husband!

‘Oh pray mistress Abigail, if it pleases you mistress Abigail, whatever her current difficulties mistress Lisa is still this male slave’s female superior and better, mistress Abigail, and he is obliged by Law to honour and respect the superior mistress’s feet, if you would be so kind and understanding towards this humble, male footslave, mistress Abigail.’

Miss Abigail ruminates on what I have said for a few minutes after sitting down in front of my humbly kneeling frame and sipping on her freshly-made coffee, before placing her own red stiletto-heeled and tan-stockinged foot under my kneeling nose:

‘Mmm…. I suppose that’s true, slave…now pay your respects to my footwear or I’ll have you whipped!’

‘Yes mistress Abigail. God bless you for being so understanding, mistress Abigail.’

I kiss the glamorous mistress Abigail’s shiny, victorious, red shoeleather, even though in my inferior, sock-obsessed maleslave mind I am still worshipping the troubled and rejected mistress Lisa’s black ballet flats and well-worn ankle socks! In my pathetic footslave-mind her short, black sneaker-socks win over miss Abigail’s tan-coloured nylons.

Yes, mistress Abigail may have stolen her husband from her, but I somehow sense that my favourite bespectacled and besocked mistress Lisa is down, but not out!




Fable no. 15 – The Hole in the Wall Foot-kisser

I love my job. I love kissing female feet!

I am a full-time foot-kisser – being leased out by my master to a busy bank in one of the capital’s suburbs. I understand that my master receives a substantial income from my efforts – and the female bank gets to provide a much appreciated, foot-kissing service to its legions of female customers, thereby enhancing its image and fostering greater customer loyalty.

Everybody wins, therefore, as a result of my humble foot-kissing efforts.

The bank’s owners have positioned me in the lobby entrance to the bank, which is open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. Even when the rest of the branch is closed, the lobby – with its cash machines, rapid deposit boxes, and full time foot-kisser – remains accessible for those women with accounts in the bank.

So I am, literally, never off duty – even when I am sleeping I can be awoken at any time of the night by a sharp kick to the face from an insomniac or shift-working, female customer’s boot or shoe, and I must immediately start to kiss her feet.

I am secured in a hole in the wall beneath a hole in the wall cash machine, with my foot-kissing face protruding at just above floor level. It is physically impossible for me to raise my bowed and humble, male head upwards, or from side to side. I am, therefore, perfectly positioned for kissing feet.

And my hole is built to last. My master has informed me that I shall be kissing feet in the bank indefinitely – and most probably for the rest of my unnatural life. He has counselled me to get used to it, and to like it. Because this is my present and future reality. The bank has me on a long lease!

I am therefore resigned to my humble fate and, as I intimated at the very beginning, I have followed my master’s sound advice and now like it.

Of course, it is a humble and degrading position to be in – to be so close to the dirty footwear of a constant stream of superior, young women, and to have to touch that dirty footwear respectfully with my lips – the footwear of both the female bank employees (who have a perfect right to use me) and their customers. But it is by no means boring work – thanks to the wide variety of styles and textures to be found in women’s footwear.

Take the bank employees, for example. You might think that the mistress-clerks employed by the bank, being uniformed, all have similar styles of footwear. But in actual fact the uniform regulations allow them to wear a considerable variety of shoes and/or boots on their pretty feet; and their hosiery can be varied to.

The bank’s corporate uniform is, basically, navy blue and purple– and its female employees can wear either navy blue skirts or slacks with their navy blue and purple corporate blouses and jackets. On their beautiful, feminine feet the bank’s code of dress merely stipulates that its employees must wear dark-coloured footwear, preferably black or navy-blue – but the style of that footwear is very much left to the female individual. There is no corporate footwear supplied as part of the uniform as such.

Thus some of the bankclerk-mistresses choose to wear low-cut courts; or high-heeled navy blue pumps; or plain, black or navy blue ballet flats; or black or navy-blue ankle boots; or even black leather calf or knee-length boots.

All of these feminine footwear choices are equally deserving of my male-footslavish respect, and whenever a female bank employee deigns to stop at my foot-kissing booth beneath the hole in the wall cash dispenser (which she is allowed to do providing no customer is waiting to use the machine to withdraw cash) , and presents her pretty, feminine foot onto the wooden footblock beneath my confined face for kissing, I must happily and humbly kiss it and admire it – as it is the footwear choice of a superior mistress-employee.

I am only permitted to kiss the lady’s feet – not to lick clean or tongue-shine her footwear; for I am a purely unskilled, ornamental object; held on lease by the bank in order to make its female employees and customers feel nice and superior; to make them feel admired and respected. And so my confined head is only permitted to respectfully bob up and down over the toe, heel and instep areas of their superior, female footwear as I repeatedly place my respectful, slavish kisses onto their feminine foot-leather.

When it comes to the female employees of the bank I suppose the most ubiquitous form of footwear is low-cut, court shoes. I do like kissing such smart, low-heeled, officewear court shoes – mainly because they invariably allow me to have sight of their owners’ chosen hosiery within their shoes as I kiss their rounded, or sometimes pointy, polished, leather toes.

Again, the only stipulation in the bank’s uniform regulations is that the employees’ hosiery, if any, should be either dark-coloured, or flesh-toned. Brightly, coloured tights or socks are not permitted for the bank clerk mistresses – but that still leaves a wide variety of sweet, feminine socks and/or nylons for me to admire as I kiss shoe and boot leather.

Sometime I even make so bold as to kiss their nylons on the tops of their feet inside their court shoes – just above the toe area. Most ladies do seem to like this, as they can really feel my humble lips paying homage to their superior feet, without actually experiencing the unhygienic indignity of having a dirty footslave’s lips touching their bare feet.

I do like the slightly rough feel of finest denier, nylon stockings or tights on my maleslave-lips, and I just love it when my face enters what I call the ‘slave zone’ – when it becomes so unnaturally close to a lady’s nylon-stockinged foot that I can actually make out the tiny, individual stitches in the material of her nylon stocking.

It is such a humbling experience, yet at the same time a privilege, to observe tiny little imperfections in the young woman’s hosiery that even she is probably unaware of – such as infinitesimally small little tears in the fine mesh of her flesh-coloured stocking; or perhaps a tiny foreign object – a small hair or a piece of fluff – stuck to the stitching of the nylon.

Free men may well get to admire a lady’s shapely, nylon-stockinged legs from afar, but I get to smell and touch them with my lips on her feet at ultra-close quarters. Pathetically, I like that and would never wish to swap places with a free man!

And it’s by no means just nylon stockings or tights that are worn by the female employees of the bank. Many of the young bank-clerk mistresses – particularly the more junior ones – wear black fishnets on their pretty feet and legs, thereby affording me tantalizing little glimpses of their bare footflesh beneath the mesh pattern of their fishnet tights; flesh which, sadly from my point of view but hygienically from the female wearer’s point of view, is protected from my dirty footslave-lips by the sheer thickness of the stitching.

And, of course, there are many young bankclerk-mistresses who elect to wear short, cotton anklesocks on their pretty feet inside their court shoes, ballet flats or ankle boots beneath their corporate slacks. The socks must be dark in colour in order to comply with the uniform regulations, but I have noticed that the young employee-mistresses often seem to be able to get away with wearing patterned socks – providing that the overall impression of the sock is that it is black, dark grey or navy blue.

Thus some of the bankclerk-mistresses taunt me with dark-coloured socks containing little, brightly-coloured cartoon characters or logos on the sides, or just below the elasticated tops, of their socks. Such cartoon prints and logos will ordinarily be hidden beneath the hems of their navy blue, corporate slacks or inside their black leather, ankle boots. But when the employee-mistress imperiously raises her foot onto the wooden footblock beneath my humbly kneeling, male face, and perhaps hitches up the hem of her trouser-leg, suddenly the little multicoloured logo or fun, cartoon character becomes visible to me.

It is quite deliberate of course. It is the mistress’s way of making fun of me – of teasing me – for we both know that I must kiss the logo on the side of her sock, out of respect for its individuality. Thus the mistress will even be disposed to coquettishly twist her socked foot to one side on the wooden footblock in order to afford my lips better access to that particular area of her sock.

Again, however, I am only permitted to kiss the sock logo or cartoon character. However much I may wish to, I am not permitted to lick, nose or sniff it. For I am merely an ornamental foot-kisser – not a professional sockslave as such.

I could only ever dream of becoming a skilled public sockslave!

Thus far I have concentrated on telling you about the bankclerk-mistresses’ footwear, but, of course, the bulk of my ‘customers’ are actually the bank’s female customers – and with them there is, naturally, no restriction on the type of footwear or hosiery that they can wear. This is, therefore, where the greatest variety comes into my humble foot-kissing life, for the other thing to note about the customers’ footwear is that they can be a lot less fastidious than the smartly-dressed, bank employees when it comes to the cleanliness and shininess of their footwear.

I hate to have to reveal this massive footslave-secret to you – but feet and footwear tend to be dirty! Even the seemingly cleanest pair of shoes contains traces of street dust and dirt when observed close-up. And even the most recently washed feet contain a residual odour of foot perspiration.

Perhaps my eyes and nose have just become oversensitive to foot and shoe dirt and odour over the many years I have been confined in the bank’s ground-level hole in the wall, but the oft-used phrase ‘down in the dirt’ to describe footslaves such as myself is, I have to say, very apt.

I am very much ‘down in the dirt’ – the floor level dirt – surrounded by dirt, and continuously tasting dirt on my humble, footslave lips. That’s why it would be so unhygienic and inappropriate of me to kiss a lady’s bare foot – I would be risking the transfer of my previous customer’s shoe-dirt or sock-moistness from my footslave-lips onto the current female customer’s bare footflesh. Unthinkable!

Of course, dirt isn’t all bad when it comes to footwear. It adds flavour, and enhances my whole humiliating and degrading foot-kissing experience. If ever I start to get ideas above my foot-kissing station, I study and observe the dirt on a lady’s boot or shoe into which I am about to place my lips. That soon brings me quite literally, down to earth again – since the dirt is mainly comprised of earth.

When it comes to the female bank-customers’ footwear I do so love the bright colours that are prohibited to the bankclerk-mistresses. It is so nice to be able to kiss a pair of dirty, scuff-marked, bright red, high-heeled pumps; or some scruffy, high-top, thick laced, pink and white, canvas sneakers; or a strappy pair of brown, high-heeled sandals; or even a filthy, muddy pair of pale green wellies - instead of just corporate black or navy blue courts much of the time.

And as for the customers’ tights and socks – well, anything goes! They can be as bright and garish, and as thick or grubby, as the superior customer-mistress chooses. I’m convinced many of them only pop into the bank purely in order to impose their grubby footwear upon me. I suspect that some of them have absolutely no intention of actually using the hole in the wall cash machine above me. Many of them probably aren’t even customers of the bank. Single mums; the unemployed; benefits-cheats – they all just want to have their feet kissed for free and to get a bit of respect in their lives from the humble foot-kisser.

I’m sure, however, that the bank is perfectly content with all that - any footfall is good for the bank, for it is bound to drum up some new business!

I even, on one occasion, had to kiss the black and grey, lace-up sneakers and white sneaker socks of a female bank-robber whilst she was robbing the bank! My DNA was subsequently found on her sneakers and socks and it helped to convict her – not that she was punished by the Female Courts for her audacious crime. Being female, and exempt from punishment, an anonymous male slave was flogged and sent to prison on her behalf.

And quite right too!

Of course, none of my customers – be they bank employees or bank customers/robbers – ever feel the need to speak to me or to give me a verbal order to kiss their foot. It is quite obvious to everyone, including myself, what I am there for. I am an ornamental foot-kisser; I kiss feet, and when a shapely, feminine foot is placed on my wooden footblock it is obvious that I must pay my slavish respects to it, by kissing it.

I can kiss any part of it that my mouth can reach – subject to the proviso, mentioned earlier, that my lips must not make contact with bare feminine footflesh, for reasons of hygiene.

Frustratingly, of course, I cannot raise my entrapped head high enough to kiss the uppers of many types of feminine footwear – notably knee-length boots. Even the tops of calf-length boots are beyond my remit, and I also struggle somewhat with the tops of some styles of high-heeled ankle boots.

But whenever I place my lips on the more accessible lower parts of such boots – the toes, the heels and the insteps – I at least have the pleasure of sensing how the lady’s superior footwear towers dominantly above me, reminding me that she is my superior and better, as my ugly, male head is lower than her beautiful, feminine footwear.

I suppose my overall favourite type of footwear to kiss is ballet flats. I like them for a number of reasons:

Firstly, because they can be worn both by the female bank employees and by the female customers, being appropriate work or casual footwear;

Secondly because they invariably smell strong and musty – something to do with the softness of the leather;

Thirdly because they can be incredibly scruffy (certainly the ones worn by the female customers are often scuff-marked and dirt-stained – particularly those containing brighter, lighter colours);

And fourthly, they reveal much of the female wearer’s socks, being so low-cut on the uppers.

Even low-top, lace-up sneakers don’t reveal as much sneaker-sock as a sweet pair of ballet flats. I think they should actually be called ‘ballet-flat socks’, as they go so well with such flat-level, low cut shoes. Yes - there is always plenty of female sock to admire and kiss on a young woman’s feet when she is wearing her favourite pair of ballet flats!

Only ballet flats worn on bare feet cause a problem, as one has to be extra careful not to allow one’s dirty, slave lips to stray onto the vast expanse of sweet, feminine, bare footflesh – but I am, even if I say so myself, quite adept at avoiding such unhygienic impertinences.

And so there you have it - my humble life as a hole in the wall foot-kisser. Surrounded by the feet and footwear of beautiful and soft young women; obliged to continually pay my respects to my female betters by kissing their boots, sandals, shoes, tights and socks. Taken for granted by all and sundry – as I jolly well should be. For I am their slave – courtesy of the bank.

I do not require any praise or thanks from those female betters at whose feet I serve. I am only doing my job, and I love my job – even if it is unpaid work.

For it has its own rewards; I get to kiss female feet!





Fable no. 14 – Situation Vacant

I work on a chain-gang with about 20 other prisoner-slaves. We are all hardened, male convicts, sentenced by the Female Courts to suitably hard labour for life - scrubbing clean dusty roads and pathways in the desert on our hands and knees by means of tiny brushes attached to our prisoner-slave mouths.

We are supervised, of course, by exclusively female guards – just to add to our male-prisoner sense of impotence and humiliation; pretty, young, physically fit, female prison-guards in their fetching uniforms consisting of crisp white shirts, navy blue ties, navy-blue, bootcut trousers, and black leather, block-heeled, zip up ankle boots.

And they carry whips, of course. Each taskmistress has a stinging, single-tailed black leather, slave-whip attached to a leather belt around her shapely, feminine waist – a whip which can be unfastened in the flutter of a feminine eyelid and brought down with alacrity upon the bare, sunburnt and aching back of any male, chain-gang, prisoner slave who is deemed to be shirking in his humiliating and nugatory work of scrubbing clean the desert floor!

All the female guards are harsh and unforgiving – but the harshest of them all is undoubtedly 27 year old, bespectacled, guard-mistress Sonya. She never smiles, not even when she is gleefully applying the whip to one of our prone and vulnerable, male backs with all her sweet, feminine might – something which she likes to do frequently. She is perpetually stony-faced like the rocks in the desert around her. And unlike the desert she is cold – terrifyingly cold!

But despite her coldness and harshness – or perhaps even because of it – we slaves all respect and admire taskmistress Sonya, and not just because of her shapely figure, her long, dark, curly hair and her piercing, unsympathetic eyes behind those dark-rimmed glasses. We admire her because she is self-evidently good at her job of keeping we indolent and lazy male slaves on our knees, hard at work and sweating as we should be – scrubbing the desert floor with our mouths.

Guard-mistress Sonya knows exactly how to wield the female whip on a man’s back in such a way that he simply has to fear her and respond by working harder. She is supremely good at her job of getting the maximum amount of effort using the sharpest amount of pain. And you just have to respect and admire such efficient, young-female power and authority over big, burly men!

To a man, therefore, we truly fear the all-powerful, if slightly built, guard-mistress Sonya – and her leather whip – above all the other cruel taskmistresses under whom we must toil.

One of our number was particularly favoured by mistress Sonya – the muscular and handsome prisoner slave no. 563 – for he had been selected to be taskmistress Sonya’s personal foot-fag. Come sundown, when the rest of us were crawled back through the desert to our dormitory-cell in the nearby male-prison, prisoner-slave no. 563 was attached to mistress Sonya’s waist belt by means of a heavy chain around his neck, and was permitted to crawl after her dusty, black ankle-booted heels to her private quarters where he served her for a further 3 hours each evening as her personal foot-fag.

When he was eventually brought back to our dormitory cell after his 3 extra hours of servitude each night, he would regale us with stories of how terrifying and wonderful it was to be the personal foot-fag of the severe and unsmiling guard-mistress Sonya.

Sure he inevitably had several extra whip marks across his bare back each evening. That was only to be expected, for we all knew that mistress Sonya was as hard to please in her private quarters as she was to please on the desert sands. She had high and exacting female standards which no male prisoner-slave, however hard he laboured, could ever possibly live up to.

But at least trustee prisoner-slave no. 563 was getting to unzip mistress Sonya’s dusty, black leather, uniform ankle boots at the end of each hot day working in the desert, and had the inestimable honour of smelling and serving her hot and sweaty feet and socks!

He told us she made him first lick the desert dust off the outsides of her black leather ankle boots, whilst she was still wearing them. He told us she demanded that he lick the dust from each and every crevice and corner of her boots – especially in the gap between her blocky, black leather bootheels and her dirty, dusty bootsoles. He also had the honour of licking out the dust from the very zippers on the sides of her short, leather boots.

Mistress Sonya would, apparently, be sitting and relaxing in a comfortable armchair in her private quarters in the prison, still fully uniformed, whilst prisoner-slave no. 563 humbly licked clean her boots. He told us that she liked to watch television and drink a glass of red wine whilst having her dusty boots licked clean by the male prisoner at the end of her long day’s work supervising the chain-gang.

Prisoner no. 563 further informed us that mistress Sonya would then inspect her boots – ensuring that every last grain of desert sand had been removed from them down into his footslave-throat before, still aloof and stony-faced as ever, she would order him to unzip her boots with his mouth and take them off her feet.

We listened intently as he told us about mistress Sonya’s socks inside her boots. He told us she invariably wore ankle-length, uniform issue, plain, navy blue cotton socks inside her black, uniform ankle boots, and he proudly informed us that her socks always stank inside her boots.

How could it possibly be otherwise? After all, the young, dark-haired woman was on her feet all day, whipping slaves on the chain-gang in the middle of the desert! Of course her feet were going to perspire into her socks inside her female prison-officer ankle boots!

We listened awestruck every night as prisoner no. 563 told us how he was first obliged to massage stony-faced, but beautiful, guard-mistress Sonya’s sweaty and moist, warm-socked feet with his bare hands! He told us her sock-stink totally enveloped him as he did so, but that mistress Sonya, as befits a superior guard-mistress, was quite unabashed at his nasal suffering, and merely continued to watch television and drink her wine whilst he attended to her navy-blue-socked feet and gently massaged her sweaty, moist, socked toes.

Indeed he happily informed us that she would subconsciously (or perhaps even consciously) wriggle her pretty, white toes inside her navy blue socks, thereby releasing more of her socksweat directly up into his kneeling nostrils.

Trustee-prisoner no. 563, understandably, was quite proud to be guard-mistress Sonya’s private sock-massager, and he even allowed us to smell her stale socksweat on his hands in exchange for contraband cigarettes!

Our ears would then prick up even further as he went on to explain that he was often referred to by mistress Sonya as a ‘dog’, and was required to ‘get her scent’ by audibly sniffing her sweaty, navy blue bootsocks – or to ‘hoover up her sock-stink through his ugly prisoner-slave nose’ as she was apparently in the habit of putting it. Prisoner no. 563 said that this was probably the worst part of his foot-fag job, since the warm, sweaty, girlfoot stink was tolerable whilst one was merely rubbing the socks with one’s hands, but could be quite overpowering when one had to run one’s nose directly over the cotton material of the socks and audibly sniff them.

Nevertheless mistress Sonya’s navy blue socks, apparently, felt nice and soft to the nose, and prisoner no. 563 delighted in telling us that he could often feel where the navy blue socks were beginning to thin and wear away through the sensitive tip of his slave-nose as he ran it over the cotton material of mistress Sonya’s socks, audibly sniffing them for her delectation and stony-faced amusement.

He then, apparently, had to verbally praise and bless guard-mistress Sonya for granting him the honour of sniffing her stinky socks whilst she was still wearing them, and next had to beg her for the honour of removing her socks from her feet with his slave-teeth and sucking the residual sweat off her bare, unvarnished, white toes.

He told us it was a humble request which magnanimous guard-mistress Sonya always acceded to, and we listened awestruck, as prisoner no. 563 described the salty, vinegary taste of mistress Sonya’s bare footsweat and raw toejam between and beneath her unpainted, unpedicured toenails!

Every prisoner-slave in the dormitory would then fall asleep dreaming of the sight, smell and taste of guard-mistress Sonya’s boots, socks and feet, feeling jealous of prisoner-slave no. 563 and his privileged trustee position as her personal foot-fag!

Until, that is, one day when he simply disappeared.

We don’t know what happened to him. Whether he was suddenly paroled and released (unlikely since a life sentence always means life in the Gynarchy); or whether he died of a stinky sock overdose; or whether he offended mistress Sonya in some way such that she had him sent to one of the foothole dungeons never to see the light of day again (probably the most likely explanation).

But whatever the reason for his sudden disappearance, the stern-faced mistress Sonya herself was still working as a chain-gang taskmistress, and I saw my opportunity. There was now a situation vacant for the role of her personal foot-fag!

I seized my chance just two nights later when she was extracting the jaw-breaking mouthbrush from my aching slave-mouth back in the prison’s slave-dormitory at the end of another long day scrubbing the desert sand:

'Oh pray guard-mistress Sonya, please don’t beat me most feared and respected guard-mistress Sonya, but this dirty prisoner-slave was wondering whether the most beautiful and glorious mistress would do him the sweet and kind honour of appointing him as her new, personal foot-fag, if you would be so indulgent most powerful and respected mistress?’

I knew I was taking one hell of a risk in being so presumptuous with such a harsh and temperamental, whip-trigger-happy taskmistress – but the potential rewards were just so great: getting to lick her dusty, black, female prison-officer ankleboots; to sniff and massage her navy-blue, female prison-officer socks; and to tongue clean her bare, sweaty, pasty-white feet at the end of each day!

The entire dormitory room fell silent as my fellow chain-gang convicts waited along with me, with bated breath, to see whether or not my terrifying gamble would pay off; or whether I would be sorely whipped:

‘Hah! You – my private foot-lackey, no. 874? Ha! Ha! What makes you think that a dirty, ugly creep like you could ever be worthy to be my personal footslave, prisoner no. 874?’

I am expecting such a sceptical response from the mistress for, unlike the erstwhile prisoner no. 563, I am, as the mistress has so eloquently pointed out, quite unprepossessing to look at. So I have already rehearsed my humble slave-speak answer:

‘Oh pray most respected guard-mistress Sonya, if it pleases you sweet and kind guard-mistress Sonya, this dirty prisoner-slave could never be worthy of such an esteemed honour as serving the mistress’s superior boots, socks and bare feet, if you would be so kind most beautiful guard-mistress Sonya. But this slave truly fears and respects the dreadful sting of the mistress’s leather whip, mistress Sonya, and slavishly craves more of it, even though he abhors its sting, if you would be so kind and understanding guard-mistress Sonya. That is because this slave humbly seeks to learn how better to obey the mistress, as the female whip teaches him how to properly respect and serve the mistress’s superior feet and footwear, if you would be so kind and magnanimous to this humble footslave-prisoner, most esteemed and admired guard-mistress Sonya.’

For the first time ever I sense a smile on mistress Sonya’s pretty, bespectacled face. Perhaps not so much of a smile as a smirk. A supercilious smirk of one who truly believes in her innate, female superiority over the cringing and grovelling male individual at her booted feet, and who, quite rightly, despises him with all her feminine being.

Nevertheless, that smirk also tells me that my reckless gamble has actually paid off! I have touched a nerve. My mention of her beloved, female whip, and my masochistic desire to receive more of its sting at her pretty, fair hands, has clearly tickled guard-mistress Sonya’s fancy. She wants to make me regret saying that; to truly break me with the power of her whip.

She now sees me as a challenge; a project to work on. Therefore I know she will accept my humble proposal!

Sure enough, mistress Sonya utters the words I have been truly longing to hear:

‘Very well, prisoner 874. I will try you out for a one month period– starting tonight. You will serve after hours as my new personal foot-fag…’ and with that she crouches down, causing the dusty, black leather in her ankle boots to crease and fold in front of my very eyes, as she attaches her waist-chain to the metal slave collar around my scrawny prisoner neck:

‘…Now crawl after my heels, 874!’ she barks down at me as she triumphantly leads me off towards her private quarters.

I can sense the jealous eyes of 20 or so chain-gang footslaves following after me as I, for my part, crawl expectantly after the delightful, bespectacled, guard-mistress Sonya’s dusty, block-heeled, black leather, ankle boots!





Fable no. 13 – Reflections on a Prickly Customer

Mistress Patricia can be a bit of a prickly customer. She requires ultra-careful handling as, if she feels even in the least bit slighted by a public footslave, she will immediately lash out. And in the case of a superior mistress in the Gynarchy that means that she is free to literally lash out, since every public shoelick-stand in the country, like mine, has a public-use whip hanging over the slave, ready for any dissatisfied customer to unhook, unfurl and unleash upon the bare back of the offending footslave.

I have felt the sting of mistress Patricia’s lash many times before as she is, unfortunately for me, one of my regular customers.

I say ‘unfortunately’, but it is, of course, in actual fact a great honour for me to serve a superior and domineering, young woman such as mistress Patricia by licking clean her shoes or boots.

She is a pretty enough girl – white; late 20’s; long, black hair framing a sharp, but attractive, feminine face; quite tall, and slightly on the plump side, but still with shapely ankles and lower legs – legs which are normally bare beneath her ubiquitous, modest, below the knee, navy-blue pinstriped, business-skirts.

Mistress Patricia likes to wear either her favourite pair of black, zip-up ankle boots with chunky heels, or a pair of shiny, black, chunky-heeled, patent leather, mary-jane style shoes with a fetching T bar strap covering the top of her otherwise soft, bare, white foot. And the foot-service she is most likely to require is a straightforward boot or shoe shining – with my slave tongue, of course!

Now, I am a public boot and shoe licker of many years’ experience. During my wretched slave-lifetime of public service I must have successfully tongue-shone literally thousands of pairs of sweet feminine shoes and boots – all whilst their demanding, female owners were sat imperiously above me on my shoelick-stand, and all, even if I say so myself, to their complete satisfaction.

So even a pair of T Bar strapped, mary-jane style shoes with chunky heels doesn’t faze me. Some less experienced footslaves baulk at having to tongue-shine the often thin and narrow T bar shaped , leather cross-straps on such pretty shoes – concerned, no doubt, that their inexperienced slave-tongues might inadvertently stray onto the mistress’s bare footflesh, thereby earning them a severe and fully justified, whipping!

I have no such concerns – not even when tongue-shining the patent leather, mary-jane shoes of a particularly prickly customer like mistress Patricia. For over the years I have trained my footslave-tongue to lick female shoe and sandal straps that are barely a millimetre wide!

I like to think I am a good and diligent footslave. I like to be told what to do; to do what I am told; and to do it well. That’s precisely why I make such a good slave for a demanding mistress like mistress Patricia! I yearn for nothing more than to please each and every customer-mistress who deigns to take up her seat above me, to place her feet on the two metal footrests directly in front of my humbly-bowed and kneeling face, and to entrust me with the tongue-shining of her sweet, feminine footwear – be she sweet-natured and patient or spiteful and prickly.

Moreover, it is in my slave nature to always be ultra-respectful and humble as I lick superior-female shoe and boot leather. However, be that as it may, no matter how hard I try there are just some days when mistresses such as mistress Patricia will not be satisfied with my efforts, and will perceive one or other of my actions as being an intentional slight towards them, or even as an act of out and out slave-rebellion!

Take two mornings ago, for example. I spotted mistress Patricia’s familiar chunky-heeled, patent black leather, mary-jane style shoes with the T bar straps heading towards my ‘sit-down’ shoelick stand just after 10 o’clock.

She was, as usual, wearing her smart office-suit consisting of a crisp, white, frilly blouse; a pinstriped, navy blue jacket; and a matching, navy-blue, just-below-the-knee length skirt. She looked every bit the powerful and successful young businesswoman I truly believe she is.

As per usual also she climbed up onto my shoelick-stand and made herself comfortable in the seat above me without expressing any words of greeting to me. Some of my regular mistresses do graciously enquire after my well-being or health before they take up their seat of power above me. Of course, they couldn’t really care less about a public footslave’s state of health - they are just making polite conversation. But I always think it is nice of a superior mistress to even bother to do that!

I know mistress Patricia well enough, however, not to expect any such polite chit-chat from her. She clearly despises and distrusts all male slaves – and especially the likes of me, a mere down-in-the-dirt public footslave on the edge of the town square. Mistress Patricia clearly believes she is above making any polite conversation with a slave; that she is infinitely superior and better than me; and that my function is merely to hear and obey her brusquely-delivered orders.

And, of course, she is quite correct in all her beliefs.

No, the most I could possibly have hoped for as she settled into the raised shoeshine-chair in front of which I was kneeling, was that she would be in a relatively good mood. For whenever mistress Patricia is in a foul mood she takes it out on slaves – slaves like me.

She may have not deigned to greet me, but I, of course, am obliged by law to respectfully greet her – however supercilious and stuck-up she may be:

‘Oh pray, mistress Patricia. God bless you mistress Patricia for honouring me with your divine, female presence. Oh pray, mistress, how may I serve you this morning, most respected mistress Patricia?’

As if I didn’t know! She will simply want her shoes to be tongue-shined.

Sure enough her curt and dismissive response comes down to me from on high:

‘Shine them up, slave, and make it snappy! I’m in a hurry!’

Oh dear! Mistress Patricia does not sound like she is in a particularly good mood at all today! She sounds a bit ‘snappy’ herself again – but then she has every right to be, as she is an important businesswoman on her way to some important meeting for which she is, no doubt, running late. I should, and I do, feel privileged and honoured that this beautiful, dark-haired, young businesswoman-mistress with her fiery temper has deigned to even stop at my shoelick stand in order to have her dirty businesswoman-shoes cleaned.

And the patent leather shoes are, it has to be said, quite a bit dirty. Nothing horrendous though – just a few traces of street mud and dust soiling the otherwise shiny, black leather along the insteps, and a few visible scuff marks on the backs of her chunky, black leather heels.

Nothing my footslave-tongue can’t handle!

I am confident that I can do what has been asked of me and avoid any stinging strokes of the lash at mistress Patricia’s fair hands – even though she is a dangerous, young woman to be kneeling before when she is in an evidently foul mood, and is seated in such an undisputed position of supreme, feminine power and authority over me with unrestricted access to a nearby whip!

I politely acknowledge mistress Patricia’s succinct and to the point orders:

‘Yes mistress Patricia. At once mistress Patricia!’

I then out my tongue and put it to work – going straight for the dirtiest stretch along the lower instep of mistress Patricia’s right, mary-jane style, T bar, business shoe.

I am conscious of her watching me from above. She always watches me, with a critical, feminine eye. Watching for some slip-up on my part. That’s why I fear and respect her so much. She is my female master and better, and I must satisfy her, and her shoes, with my shoe-shining efforts.

But, I’m pleased to say that my licks to her right shoe are perfectly applied and highly effective in removing the offending dirt along her patent leather instep. So much so, in fact, that the sun starts to reflect brightly off her now shimmering-with-footslave-saliva, mary-jane shoe, causing me to momentarily squint up my eyes.

‘Why are you looking at my shoes in that funny way, slave?’ enquires mistress Patricia perfectly calmly, but with an ominous note of seeming paranoia creeping into her sweet, feminine voice.

At first, I don’t know what she is talking about:

‘I beg your pardon, mistress?’

A split second later my jaw is reeling from a sharp, feminine kick from the patent leather, rounded toe of mistress Patricia’s aforementioned, right, mary-jane shoe:

'DON’T YOU DARE TRY TO ANSWER ME BACK, YOU DIRTY FOOTPIG! YOU HEARD WHAT I SAID! I WANT TO KNOW WHY YOU ARE GIVING MY SHOES THAT FUNNY LOOK!’

She kicks me again – this time catching me on my sensitive upper lip area.

I am momentarily in shock – as are some female passers-by who stop to see what all the female fuss is about.

The kicks to my face force my stupid, maleslave-brain into overdrive, and I realise that mistress Patricia must be referring to my involuntary and split-second squinting, caused by the reflection of the sunlight in her freshly-licked shoe.

I immediately seek to reassure the mistress that no offence was intended:

‘Oh pray, mistress Patricia, please forgive this dirty, inconsiderate slave, mistress Patricia, but this pathetic, worthless slave, who is at your sweet, feminine mercy, mistress, was just attempting to shield his eyes from the reflection of the sunlight in your shoe, if you would be so kind and understanding most respected mistress Patricia.’

I brace myself for a further verbal onslaught, and possibly some stinging lashes from the whip, as I just know that mistress Patricia is in no mood to accept such a feeble excuse from a low-down footslave.

She doesn’t whip me, however…not immediately; instead she just reaches down and slaps me hard with the palm of her delicate, female hand across my right cheek:

‘FILTHY, LYING, PIG!’ she screams at the top of her voice. ‘I SAW YOU – YOU WERE DISRESPECTING ME BY PULLING A FACE OVER MY SHOES, LIKE YOU DON’T LIKE THEM, OR SOMETHING! HOW DARE YOU – DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I AM, SLAVE?’

I, of course, do know who mistress Patricia is. She is a local businesswoman – not exactly anyone famous; but the point she is seeking to make, presumably, is that, being female, she is my total superior and better, and deserving of my utmost respect. I certainly have no right to protect my eyes from the glare of her patent leather, mary-jane shoes, however much they are hurting my eyes!

I swiftly lower my slave-lips to her pretty shoes once again and begin feverishly kissing them – kissing them both all over; from the rounded toes to the chunky heels; from the soles to the tops; from the sides to the narrow T Bar straps covering the tops of her bare feet, where so many footslaves fear to tongue-tread; all in a fevered attempt to ingratiate myself with the angry mistress and her offended shoes, and to assuage her (and by extension her shoes’) righteous, feminine wrath at me:

‘Oh pray mistress Patricia…kiss… kiss…please forgive this dirty, disrespectful slave…kiss...kiss… for his insolence and impertinence towards the mistress and her beautiful shoes…kiss…kiss… most respected and merciful mistress …kiss...kiss… Oh pray mistress Patricia… kiss….kiss… oh pray! This slave apologises to the mistress from the very depths of his being …kiss…kiss... for causing offence to the mistress… kiss…kiss…and her shoes… kiss…kiss… by his futile and frivolous gesture…if you would be so kind and forgiving, mistress Patricia… kiss…kiss…and mistress Patricia’s shoes…kiss…kiss….’

Mistress Patricia’s response to that abject apology for an apology is, perhaps, entirely predictable:

‘HAH? FORGIVE YOU? FORGIVE YOU, SLAVE? WHY THE HELL SHOULD I FORGIVE YOU? AM I NOT YOUR MISTRESS? AND ARE YOU NOT MY SLAVE?...I NEVER FORGIVE A SLAVE FOR HIS IMPERTINENCE AND DISRESPECT!... MY GOD, I’LL MAKE YOU SORRY YOU SAW FIT TO MAKE FUN OF MY SHOES!’

And with that the predictable reaches for the inevitable – she reaches for the nearby whip.

I’ll draw a veil, if I may, over my pain and suffering during the next few minutes as I was on the receiving end of angry mistress Patricia’s angry whip. Suffice it to say that my back was soon covered in equally angry weals as I blubbered for mercy into her apparently offended pair of mary-jane shoes – an equally prickly pair, it seems!

The irony was, of course, that the more I blubbered and slobbered over the whip-wielding mistress Patricia’s patent-leather T bar shoes, the more they shone and glistened in the bright sunshine, and the more that sunlight hurt my eyes! The very cause of my downfall in the first place!

But I had learnt my lesson. I did not squint my eyes again.

Mistress Patricia only stopped whipping me when her whipping arm got tired. She seemed to be in a much better mood as she stepped down from the raised podium of the shoelick-stand, having just whipped me.

That may have been, in part, because a crowd of approving, female onlookers had gathered to witness my shame and punishment, and were applauding mistress Patricia and congratulating her on disciplining the unruly and disrespectful, public footslave. After she had gone, one or two of the female onlookers even crouched down to my face and asked me how clever I was feeling now? They laughed at me and suggested that I would think twice before pulling funny faces again over a superior young businesswoman’s pretty shoes.

They were quite right. I had indeed learnt my lesson the hard way. And the next day, when mistress Patricia graciously returned to my public shoelick-stand – partly, no doubt, to inspect and admire the weals she had inflicted on my rebellious back the day before, I apologised again to her, and to the same pair of shoes, by kissing them 100 times and begging them yet again to forgive me for my totally inappropriate demeanour whilst I had been serving them the day before.

A still prickly mistress Patricia, on behalf of her patent leather T Bar shoes, merely told me to shut up, and to get on with my tongue-shining.

Thankfully the sun was not shining on that second day.

Nor is it shining today - should customer-mistress Patricia deign to grace me with her superior, but prickly, presence once again.




Fable no. 12 – Humble Apologies

I am terrified about what is going to happen next!

I have been summoned to the office of the manageress in order to apologise to two of her female staff for my completely unacceptable footslave behaviour.

Even I can’t believe what I have done – I snapped at a mistress! Believe it or not, I actually lost my footslave-temper with a superior mistress, and when politely ordered to lick some mud off the side of her office court-shoe, I asked her to wait!

Incredible I know, but it happened like this:

I was doing my office-footslave rounds as usual – crawling through the various rooms of the multi-storey, office building and performing my regular footslave chores for all the female staff: kissing feet; licking shoes and boots; sniffing socks; massaging sweaty, nylon-stockinged toes.

I had reached the desk of the blonde-ponytailed office junior, 19 year old miss Stephanie. The slim and attractive miss Stephanie, as per usual, was wearing her ultra-pretty pair of familiar, soft, black ballet flats and a matching pair of short, black ankle socks beneath the hems of her smart, black, boot-cut, trouser legs. Also as per usual she was requiring me to ‘nose’ her socks – a form of foot massage whereby a slave has to rub his nose up and down a lady’s socked instep in order to make her feel good and to help her to relax.

Miss Stephanie often has me do this whilst she takes her elevenses and surfs the internet – for by mid morning she is normally running out of things to do in the office, so light is her workload.

Anyway, there I was kneeling under her desk and running the sensitive tip of my nose along the instep of her short, black, cotton sneaker-sock whilst she was still wearing it inside her beautiful, low-cut ballet flat.

To be honest I was enjoying my humble service towards her right, socked foot every bit as much as, I hope, mistress Stephanie was enjoying her relaxing socked-foot massage, for, not only could I smell the mustiness of her black, ballet-flat leather mixed in with the faintest aroma of delicate, feminine foot perspiration, I was also able to catch a rare glimpse of a multicoloured series of little logos running along the side of miss Stephanie’s otherwise plain black sock. It was a whole series of gaily coloured little logos in the shapes of various ‘girly’ icons such as flowers; handbags; high-heeled shoes; lipsticks etc.

I had not seen this particular pair of socks on her feet before, and I always made a point of studying mistress Stephanie’s socks in great detail! These were, actually, quite a fun pair of novelty socks – even though they looked like plain, black, office wear socks to all and sundry. For the most part, you see, the multicoloured logos would be cleverly hidden down the side of miss Stephanie’s ballet-flat shoes – it was only because she was currently seated with her socked heel raised up out of the back of her shoe, and also because her sock was slightly twisted along her pretty foot, that the tiny logos were visible to my footslave eyes.

I was therefore feeling very privileged not just to be nosing blonde miss Stephanie’s socked foot, but also to be able to study these elusive little logos on the twisted side of her black anklesock, and I was fantasising about being ordered by her to pay slavish homage to each of the little feminine logos in turn – by kissing them; one hundred times each, as a symbol of my maleslave admiration and devotion towards all things feminine!

In short, I was feeling at one with mistress Stephanie’s sock, when my pathetic sockslavish reverie was suddenly and unexpectedly interrupted by another of the office workers –the redhead miss Amanda – who occupies the desk next to miss Stephanie.

Miss Amanda is only a year or so older than miss Stephanie, but is nevertheless her superior in rank, having more academic qualifications. She is also much fatter than miss Stephanie, and not nearly as ‘pretty’, in the conventional use of the term. In addition, I have to say, miss Amanda can be much more difficult to please as an office-footslave, for she can be quite prickly at times.

But, for all that, I do, ordinarily, enjoy servicing miss Amanda’s feet and footwear every bit as much as that of miss Stephanie – mainly because miss Amanda has a penchant for wearing deliciously soft and fluffy, thick, black, towelling socks to the office inside her smart, black leather court shoes, which for their part have delightfully rounded toes and equally delightful one-inch heels.

I do adore the rounded toes of miss Amanda’s black leather court shoes, and licking the street dust and dirt off those black leather shoes beneath the hems of her dark, navy-blue, bell-bottom trouser legs is, in the normal course of events, one of the highlights of my footslave day – particularly as I get to look at yet more, rich-black feminine anklesock at close quarters whilst I am doing so.

As I have already intimated, however, the impetuous and somewhat ‘stuck-up’ miss Amanda can be much more demanding than her prettier and more junior colleague, miss Stephanie, often inspecting the rounded toes of her freshly licked court shoes several times before finally expressing satisfaction with my efforts and releasing me to crawl onwards to my next female ‘customer’ in the office (usually miss Debbie in Accounts, who likes to have me unzip her brown, leather ankleboots and sniff her flesh-coloured, nylon-stockinged toes!).

But today I wasn’t concentrating on any of that. Today was not a normal day. I was nosing a new pair of intriguing girlsocks for the first time, and I freely admit that I was lingering somewhat with my nose on the side of mistress Stephanie’s cute, multi-logoed sock - such a rare treat was it to nuzzle such sweet and feminine sock logos.

I had just reached a logo on the blacksock-instep containing a delightful little, pink handbag when miss Amanda’s irritatingly haughty-taughty voice suddenly came barking across the room:

‘Slave come over here this instant and lick my shoes clean. I stepped in a pool of mud on the way into work and the fronts of my shoes are covered in filth!’

Clearly this was some sort of footwear-emergency, at least from miss Amanda’s point of view. It was not just that her black leather, office court-shoe was soiled by the normal detritus of the city streets. There was an unacceptable amount of mud attached to her office shoes that required immediate removal by my footslave-tongue!

I knew in my heart of hearts that miss Stephanie wouldn’t have minded if I had interrupted my intimate nosing of her socked-instep at that point in time, firstly because miss Amanda was clearly in some distress over the state of her dirty footwear; secondly because miss Amanda was miss Stephanie’s superior in the office; and thirdly because I was probably overrating the pleasurable effects of my sock-nuzzling on miss Stephanie’s own consciousness. To be perfectly honest I think she was merely indulging my passion for her socked foot, being the sweet and kind young, blonde woman that she is, and was herself much more interested in whatever it was she was shopping for on the internet.

Nevertheless miss Amanda’s abrupt and seemingly arrogant interruption of my pleasurable sock-nuzzling riled me, and, may the goddess have mercy on my soul, I answered mistress Amanda, back:

‘In a minute mistress Amanda. I’m still nosing mistress Stephanie’s sock, if it pleases you mistress Amanda!’

Well! Needless to say it did not please the fiery redhead, mistress Amanda! Not one little bit:

‘What?! What was that?! What did you just say to me, slave?’

I knew immediately by the tone of miss Amanda’s shrill, female voice that I was now in deep trouble. She clearly couldn’t believe her ears, and when I thought back to my curt and dismissive response to her perfectly legitimate and relatively polite request to have her muddy office shoes licked clean, I couldn’t believe what I had just said either!

I immediately pulled myself out of my stupidity and away from mistress Stephanie’s pretty sock, crawled expeditiously over towards the (admittedly caked in mud) black leather court shoes and black towelling socks beneath navy blue, bell-bottom trouser legs of mistress Amanda, and began showering the muddy, female shoes with most humble and penitent kisses.

In between kissing miss Amanda’s shoe-mud, I attempted to justify my former rudeness:

‘Oh pray mistress Amanda …kiss…kiss…pray forgive this dirty slave …kiss…kiss... for his impertinence and insolence ... kiss…kiss... most sweet and kind mistress Amanda ...kiss...kiss… but this slave was just in the middle of nosing miss Stephanie’s socks …kiss…kiss…if you would be so kind mistress Amanda…. kiss...kiss… and did not wish to disobey mistress Stephanie… kiss….kiss… by finishing his humble chore without her permission… kiss…kiss… if you would be so kind and understanding, all-powerful and gracious mistress Amanda… kiss…kiss.’

The mere fact that my footslave-lips were now themselves caked in street-mud from miss Amanda’s court shoes demonstrated that I had made a terrible error of judgement in declining to attend to her muddy footwear immediately upon being ordered to do so! Her precious footwear clearly had needed emergency mouth-to-shoe resuscitation!

Moreover, I’m afraid that my weaselly words were only serving to get me into even more trouble, as mistress Stephanie did not exactly leap to my defence!

On the contrary, she immediately sought to distance herself from my words and actions:

‘Dirty slave! How dare you! Don’t bring me into this! I couldn’t give a monkey’s whether you carry on nosing my socks or not. I only let you do it because I know you like sniffing my socks! Creep!’

Now I am in double trouble. I have managed to offend two mistresses, one by my failure to respond immediately to an order; the other by my weaselly and pathetic attempt at self-justification.

‘I’m going straight to miss Pamela!’ declares miss Amanda. ‘I’m reporting you for insolence and disobedience, slave – right now!’

I try to place yet more penitent kisses on miss Amanda’s muddy, court shoes, but they are already turning their back on me and marching out of the room down the corridor towards the office of the manageress – miss Pamela.

‘Ha! Ha! Now you’re for it, slave! Ha! Ha! I hope you like the sting of the female cane, for I’ll bet you’re gonna become acquainted with it very shortly! Ha! Ha!’, gloats miss Stephanie, her black ballet flat on her right foot now once again fully covering those distracting little multicoloured logos on the side of her cute, black ankle sock.

Miss Stephanie speaks the truth. I am undone! And I know it!

……………………………………………………………………………

Five minutes later I find myself in the manageress’s office, bent over her caning trestle, my flimsy, white slave-shorts having been unceremoniously pulled down around my ankles.

In front of me are three pairs of superior, female feet: the sweet, black ballet flats and black, cotton ankle socks of blonde-ponytailed miss Stephanie (no logos visible on the socks now); the shiny, black patent leather, pointy-toed, high-heeled shoes on the bare, black feet of the bespectacled, Afro-Caribbean office manageress, miss Pamela; and, directly in front of me, the still somewhat mud-stained, round-toed, black leather courts and fluffy, black towelling socks of the rotund redhead, mistress Amanda.

From the corner of my eye I can just make out also the tip of mistress Pamela’s whippy looking cane, as she orders me to apologise properly to both misses Amanda and Stephanie for my downright disobedience and impertinence:

‘Slave, you will now kiss miss Amanda’s feet 300 times, 150 times on each foot. You will kiss every part of her feet, from the toes of her shoes, to the tops of her socks, to the backs of her heels. You will apologise to her for your insolence in instructing her to wait for your shoe-cleaning services, even though you can clearly see that her shoes are in need of an urgent tongue-polishing.

You will take care to lick your lips in between each kiss to miss Amanda’s footwear in order to avoid spreading any of the mud.

Whilst you are kissing her shoes and socks, you will beg her for forgiveness and mercy.

When you have finished kissing miss Amanda’s feet, you will proceed to kiss miss Stephanie’s feet the same number of times. Once again you will kiss each and every part of her shoes and socks, you will clean your lips in between each kiss, and you will beg her forgiveness for trying to imply that she would actually wish you to neglect her senior colleague’s dirty footwear!

You will then turn your attention once again to miss Amanda’s footwear, and you will tongue-polish any remaining mud off her shoes, as she so rightly ordered you to do in the first place. I like to run a clean and tidy office here, and I will not allow mud to be spread on my nice clean carpets from my office employees’ dirty shoes!

That is precisely why I employ an office-footslave in the first place!

You will not stop tongue-cleaning miss Amanda’s shoes until she is completely satisfied that every last vestige of mud has been removed from her footwear and has been transferred down your dirty, slave throat.

You will then offer to tongue-shine miss Stephanie’s ballet-flats.

When you have finished grovelling and apologising at the two young women’s feet to their satisfaction, I shall ask them whether they wish me to spare you the rod, or whether they still wish for you to be physically chastised in front of them.

If they do so wish it, I shall then be only too pleased to deliver 20 sharp strokes of the cane to your bare legs and buttocks, after which you will thank me for correcting you by kissing my own stiletto-shoes 100 times each.

Even if my two, young female employees decide to spare you the rod, I shall have your lips on my shoes, for I am your female better and will have you pay your slavish respects to my footwear also!

Now begin your self-abasement by apologising to miss Amanda. Kiss her feet in the manner I have instructed, slave!’

Miss Amanda - no doubt with a smug and supercilious grin on her, podgy, white face - then gleefully positions the muddy, rounded toe of her right foot directly underneath my prostrate nose, giving me a fresh whiff of the aroma of wet mud mixed in with wet shoe leather; wetness now caused not so much by the muddy water she had stepped in outside, but by the remains of my saliva from my previous pathetic attempt to apologise to her footwear.

Embarrassed and ashamed, I contritely lower my lips yet again to the offending, wet, feminine, court-shoe mud – which is surrounded by thick, black, feminine, towelling sock – knowing that I am going to receive the cane as sure as eggs are eggs!

For in the Gynarchy of Barbaria, where I live and work, the quality of sweet, feminine mercy towards the male slave is very much strained!

And, in this case, justifiably so!



Fable no. 11 – Mistress Nicola’s Boots (& Socks?)

Mistress Nicola is one of my regular customers, and one of my favourites. She visits my sit-down, public bootlick stand nearly every day – except when she is away sunning herself on some exotic beach with her manly husband.

What I particularly admire about mistress Nicola, apart from her rather haughty and stand-offish attitude towards me – the humble, public bootlick attending to her footwear in the town square – is the fact that she nearly always has me tongue-polish the same pair of her obviously favourite pair of stylish, knee-length, black leather boots, beneath her knee-length, navy-blue uniform skirt.

At least, I believe the skirt may be part of a uniform – a security guard’s uniform perhaps? But the beautiful, black leather, knee-length boots are much too modern and stylish to be part of a female security guard’s uniform.

For a start, they have supremely stylish, but totally impractical for a female security guard, 3 inch spiked heels. True, security-guard mistress Nicola could use such spiked heels to hobble a would-be thief or robber by spiking him in the shins! But she would not be able to chase after a fleeing suspect for long in such elegant, but severe, high heeled boots!

Nevertheless, I am glad that mistress Nicola chooses to wear such high heels to and from work, for there is no more gratifying sensation for a dirty, public bootlicker than that of having a beautiful, young woman’s dirt-covered, 3 inch spiked heel deep inside your throat – casually scraping the skin off the roof of your mouth as you desperately try to suck the dirt and mud off the pointy, metal, feminine spike. Mistress Nicola is particularly adept at thrusting her spiked heel uncaringly in and out of my mouth as I suck on it. I think she too likes the sensation of having her dirty heel inside my oral orifice. It gives her a feeling of supreme, womanly power.

And the pointy heels at the backs of her stylish, black leather, knee-length boots are gratifyingly matched by the equally sharp-looking, ultra pointy toe-ends. Again, mistress Nicola likes nothing more than to shove her pointy boot-toe deep into my gaping and receptive mouth, and to see the street mud and dirt disappearing off her feminine bootleather into my mudbath of a mouth.

Indeed, I think she gets even more pleasure out of making me suck on her pointy boot-toes than on her spiked boot-heels, because it is easier for her to watch me suck on her toes as she sits imperiously above me – a veritable knee-booted goddess being serviced in full public view by a lowly, State-owned bootlick.

Not that mistress Nicola is one to show any outward signs of pleasure on her pretty, but rather stern-looking features. She is an undeniably beautiful young woman – mid to late twenties I would guess; blonde, with her hair tied back in a pony tail, and with rather fetching red highlights streaked through her thick, blonde hair.

But she is a somewhat surly and distant young woman – at least in her attitude towards me. She rarely smiles, not even a wry, supercilious smile, even though I know she is enjoying my oral humiliation at her boots. The only visible expression of her pleasure and enjoyment in my humiliation at her booted feet is her repeated licking of her lips, and her dilated pupils.

Both signs of female arousal, or so I am told.

Perhaps the business of having a public footslave suck on her boots is just too arousing for her to wish to exhibit any outward signs of womanly pleasure? Perhaps she feels inhibited in public, being the shy and modest, young, blonde-haired woman that she is?

Or perhaps the whole process of having her boots licked and sucked in public is just too important for her to exhibit any public displays of contentment or satisfaction? Perhaps it holds an even deeper significance for her – some private significance?

Then again, perhaps she takes her overt pleasure from my bootlicking efforts later on – when she is lying in bed making love to her manly husband? Perhaps she thinks back to my humble bootsucking efforts whilst she is making love, and visualises me desperately sucking on the pointy, black leather toe of her boot – my cheek stretched and bulging from within due to the sheer force of her boot pushing against the ripped and torn tissue of my prone and vulnerable, inner cheek-lining as she scrapes her boot-toe along the inside of my worthless slave-mouth in order to remove all the offensive street filth from her precious boot-leather?

Perhaps then she is inspired to make even more passionate love with her husband, as she remembers with sensual pleasure her own female power over the humble and helpless, public footslave cringing at her feet with her dirty boot inside his mouth?

But that is all just speculation on my part, of course. All I can say for sure is that, whatever her motivations, I do so much admire mistress Nicola and her knee-high, black leather boots, that I internally praise and bless her for repeatedly making use of my humble, boot-cleaning services, even if she does always leave my mouth feeling raw and sore inside.

But even serving the delectable and naturally dominant, security-guard-mistress Nicola has its unfortunate frustrations for me. You see, her knee-length boots are the pull-on variety – as opposed to the zip-up variety – and they tend to hug her bare, white, shapely calf, shin and leg muscles quite tightly, meaning that even when I am licking clean the upper rims of her black, leather boots, I have absolutely no chance of determining whether or not my divine mistress Nicola is wearing any female socks deep inside her boots.

This is so frustrating for me as I lick her boots – particularly the lower part of her boots – for it is surely only natural that a pathetic, down at heel, public footslave would wonder about such things as he licks a mistress’s outer bootwear? Am I licking boot that is covering a socked or bare foot? If socked, what style of sock is my superior customer-mistress wearing? What colour? What texture? Is the sock clean? Or dirty? Fresh, or sweaty?

It is pure mental torture not to know such things when one is licking a beautiful blonde girl’s boots – for ones lips are so near, and yet so far, from any inner footwear that the mistress may (or may not) be wearing on her precious, bare feet.

All I can know for sure is that she is not wearing full-length, nylon stockings or tights inside her boots, for her knees are most definitely bare atop her boots. She could, admittedly, be wearing knee-length, nylon popsocks, or even knee-length cotton or thick-ribbed, woollen socks inside such boots – though I fancy that, if this was the case, I would occasionally be able to catch a furtive glimpse of the tops of any knee-length items of hosiery that mistress Nicola may be wearing on her lower legs, whilst I am feverishly tongue polishing the black, upper rims of her delectable, dominant, knee-high boots.

Or, she could be totally bare foot inside her boot-leather! That in and of itself gives rise to a whole new raft of questions: Why does she prefer to go barefoot in such heavy, knee-length boots? Is it because the boots are furry-lined inside? Or does she just like her feet to be sweaty inside her boots? Do her feet smell more aromatic inside her boots because they are not stockinged or socked, and does she want her feet to smell? Does she take good care of her feet? Or does she have a personal footslave at home to take care of them for her? Are her feet pedicured? Are her toenails painted? If so, what colour?

Oh the agony of not knowing the answers to all these pertinent questions!

Or should that be impertinent questions? For none of these questions are really any of my business, unless mistress Nicola chooses to make them so! I’m just a dirty, public footslave!

But I can’t help myself. I have been serving mistress Nicola on a regular basis for almost 7 months now – and I still don’t know whether she is wearing any socks inside her boots. It’s intolerable! I just have to know!

I have therefore taken a bold decision – I will simply ask mistress Nicola the next time she sits herself down on the raised chair in front of me, and arrogantly rests her knee-booted feet and ankles on the two metal footrests in front of my kneeling face. I will take my life in my hands and beg the mistress, in the most humble and respectful of slave-speak, to graciously enlighten me as to her sock or non-sock preferences inside her glorious leather boots.

Even if it transpires she is not wearing any socks inside her delectable, black leather boots – even if she is totally barefoot inside her boots – whilst I would be slightly disappointed (for I do like a bit of girlsock inside a female boot), just knowing that fact would be better than not knowing at all! I feel almost as if I have a right to know! Ha! Ha! Yes – me; a slave; with rights! Ha! Ha!

I’m exaggerating, of course! A slave cannot possibly have any rights! Especially a mere public bootlick like me! But I am hopeful that sweet and kind security-guard mistress Nicola will take pity on me, and will graciously enlighten me as to her sockwear, or the lack of it – if I ask her nicely.

The next day I get my chance. As per usual she is seated above me in those same, powerful, pointy toed, spike heeled, shin hugging, black leather, knee-high boots, about to manoeuvre her dirty boot-toe inside my slave mouth, when I seize the opportunity to ask her my pathetically slavish question:

‘Oh pray mistress Nicola, God bless you mistress Nicola, and pray be merciful towards this wretched slave at your booted feet, most sweet and kind mistress Nicola; but prior to inserting your righteous boot-toe into this slave’s dirty, sinful mouth, this slave begs to implore the mistress to enlighten his weak and feeble mind as to whether or not the most beautiful and gracious young mistress is wearing any socks inside her boots, if you would be so kind, most magnanimous and all-powerful mistress Nicola?’

This is truly a pivotal moment. I may have offended the mistress with my impertinence. I may be about to be whipped!

I brace myself.

‘Ha! Ha! So you want to know whether I’m wearing any socks inside my boots, do you bootslave? Ha! Ha! And why is that, slave? Ha! Ha! Do you like girls’ socks, or something?’

Mistress Nicola is mocking me. But she is not angry with me. I have escaped the whip!

I tell mistress Nicola the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth:

‘Yes mistress Nicola. If it pleases you mistress Nicola. This slave does like girls’ socks, if it is so pleasing to you most merciful and respected mistress Nicola.’

Well, there would hardly be any point in lying about such a thing, would there?

Mistress Nicola laughs down at me again, the pathetic creature who is curious to know whether or not she is wearing any socks inside her boots:

‘Ha! Ha! The slave likes girls’ socks! Ha! Ha! What a lamebrain! What a loser! Ha! Ha! Couldn’t you get yourself a job as a public sock-cleaner in that case, slave? Ha! Ha! How come you ended up as a public bootlicker instead of a public sockslave, eh?’

It’s a fair question from the intelligent, blonde-haired mistress seated above me, and one which deserves yet another truthful, if pathetic, response:

‘Oh pray mistress Nicola, if it pleases you mistress Nicola, this dirty, bootlicking slave was deemed to be unworthy for the more intimate and skilled role of smelling, and kissing and cleaning women’s socks, if you would be so kind mistress Nicola. The Female Authorities deemed him fit only to be a queer bootlicker, if you would be so kind, supremely beautiful mistress Nicola.’

That is all perfectly true. At the Footslave Training Academy I failed the sock-care course and was demoted to being trained as a public bootlicker. ‘Any fool can lick boots!’ my black, female trainer had said as she slapped me hard across the face with the back of her sweet, feminine hand as a punishment for failing the sockslave course!

And she was right. Any fool can lick boots; I am the living proof!

Mistress Nicola is clearly enjoying my career-frustration. I have never heard her laugh or seen her smile like this before:

‘Ha! Ha! So you failed to make the grade when it comes to being a humble, public sockslave? Ha! Ha! What a dork! What an idiot! Ha! Ha! You’re a complete loser, bootboy!...’

I suck it up – just as I must soon suck up the mud from mistress Nicola’s stylish, pointy boot-toe.

‘…Well, as a matter of fact slave, just to put you out of your pathetic misery I will tell you that I do happen to be wearing socks inside my boots – white ankle socks, with lots of pretty, little pink flowers on them. Ha! Ha! But why is that information of any use to you, since you have been deemed unworthy to serve a woman’s socks? Ha! Ha! What’s the point of me telling you all about my socks, if you can’t do anything for them, bootlicking queer?’

I rush to my defence:

‘Oh pray mistress, if you would be so kind and indulgent towards this pathetic, public bootlicker mistress, this slave merely wishes to respect and admire that which he is unworthy to serve, if you would be so gracious and merciful, supreme mistress Nicola. Oh pray, mistress, oh pray – if you would but deign to show this slave your sweet, feminine socks, this slave would truly serve the mistress’s boots all the more diligently in the knowledge that the mistress’s feet are warm and comfortable inside her protective socks, socks which he has been privileged to observe at close quarters with his own eyes, if it would be so pleasing to you mistress Nicola.’

I know I’m really pushing my luck here – begging the mistress to show me her socks! But again – what I am saying is all true. The mere knowledge that one is licking a sock-covered foot inside a feminine boot is bound to inspire a humble, sock-obsessed footslave like me to even greater bootlicking efforts. For it is a little snippet of privileged information that nobody else – apart from the mistress herself and, perhaps, her husband – knows. Mistress Nicola is wearing white ankle socks with a pink flower motif on them! It is precious information, and by extension it makes the mistress’s boot all the more precious, since her inner boot-lining is actually in contact with pretty, pink and white girlsock!

To actually see such a sock with my own eyes – now that would not only inspire respect; it would inspire complete and utter slavish devotion; slavish devotion to the mistress’s beautiful, feminine boots and socks!

My heart starts to race!

It well-nigh explodes at mistress Nicola’s next mocking pronouncement:

‘Ha! Ha! Very well, bootslave! You’ve convinced me! I’m going to give you a rare treat and allow you to take off one of my boots in order to look at, kiss and sniff one of my pretty pink and white socks – but only so that you will then be inspired to lick clean the outsides of my boots all the more thoroughly! For I will have my bootmud inside your dirty slave mouth! Do I make myself clear?’

I am so excited I can hardly speak:

‘Oh pray mistress! Oh yes mistress! Sweet and kind mistress!’

Mistress Nicola, with a satisfied smirk on her pretty lips, then extends her right, booted leg into the air directly in front of my face:

‘Ha! Ha! Well – go on then, slave! Pull off my boot so that you may attend to my pretty ankle sock!’

I really cannot believe my ears! Or my luck! I had only hoped to be verbally informed by mistress Nicola as to the nature of her socks, if any, inside her domineering, knee-length boots! I had never in my wildest dreams anticipated being audacious enough to request to actually see her socks, let alone to have such an audacious request acceded to, and to be subsequently ordered to pull off her boot in order to observe her sock for myself! And not just to observe it, but to actually touch it with my mouth! To kiss it! And sniff it!

God bless mistress Nicola! Praise be to mistress Nicola!

I somewhat gingerly, but gratefully, grab hold of the dirt-smeared base of her right boot and gently start to pull off the black, leather boot. It slides down her shapely, lower leg, and eventually comes off with a whoosh of warm, aromatic air.

And there it is – a short, pink and white, sneaker-style, cotton sock – the all-white toe end now hanging off mistress Nicola’s precious toes as the sock had inadvertently slipped down somewhat, due to my clumsy action of pulling off the mistress’s boot.

I can see mistress Nicola’s bare, pasty-white anklebone atop her short, pink and white sock! Such a pretty ankle. So shapely! Often imagined by me, but never before seen. It is a well-turned ankle whose beauty is only accentuated by the stretched, white elastic at the top of her short, pink and white cotton sock.

I take a moment to savour the moment. To delight in the sight and fragrant aroma of mistress Nicola’s warm, ultra-short, pink and white bootsock. What a revelation!

I am about to lower my unworthy lips to the superior sock, when something sharp is rudely inserted into my mouth, bringing me back to my footslave senses.

It is mistress Nicola’s pointy, leather boot-toe!

You see, none of the above actually happened. I’m afraid I was daydreaming. Fantasising.

Ha! Ha! You didn’t really think that any public bootslave would actually have the audacity to interrogate a customer-mistress about her socks, did you? Ha! Ha! No public bootlick would ever dare to do such a thing! He’d be shot!

Or at least whipped! Ha! Ha!

No, I never did ask the stony-faced mistress Nicola about her socks inside her boots, and she never did mockingly invite me to remove one of her boots in order to examine her imaginary sock! Instead I am, as ever, having to concentrate my slavish efforts on the outside of her unforgiving, black leather knee-length boots – on her pointy leather boot-toes and her mud encrusted, spiked heels.

But even a slave can fantasise and daydream, and there’s no real harm in it is there?

After all, it’s the only thing that keeps us footslaves sane, isn’t it?




Fable no. 10 – The Slave of Two Generations

My new mistress, mistress Jocelyn, is a stunningly beautiful Afro-Caribbean lady in her early fifties – although she looks at least twenty years younger. She is still quite slim and svelte, and her legs and ankle bones are slender and shapely. Her foot skin too is soft and feminine with little sign of ageing.

It is an honour and a privilege to be her personal foot-servant.

However, I have only been in her employ for 2 days, and so – even though I am only a few years’ her junior myself, and have been a footslave all my adult life with many previous mistresses – I still have a lot to learn about my stunning new mistress. Every mistress is different, and a personal slave must quickly get to know his new mistress’s fancies and whims; her likes and dislikes; her personality and temperament. For, however much he finds his new mistress to be pleasing to him, he is there to serve and to please her – not the other way round!

On first impressions, mistress Jocelyn seems like a kind and generous woman. Very religious. But equally a firm believer in the power of the female whip to instill discipline in a male slave. She has, I am ashamed to say, already had occasion to employ the whip across my bare back.

The reason? Whilst putting her black, suede leather, mary-jane style shoes on her pretty, black, middle-aged feet yesterday morning I erroneously buckled up her left shoe too tightly. I did up the leather buckle-strap on my mistress’s left foot through the third hole, when it should have been the fourth!

Mistress Jocelyn was, understandably, very angry at my foolish incompetence, and having verbally berated me (using surprisingly vulgar language for such a cultured and religious, mature, black lady), and having made me correct my error, she then proceeded to beat me across my bare and kneeling back with a dozen, sharp lashes of her single-tailed, brown leather, cowhide whip.

I was then required to kiss the cold, decorative, metal buckles on the toes of her black, suede leather, mary-jane shoes 500 times each, and to beg for her mercy and forgiveness. She seemed to enjoy the fact that I was blubbering and whining into her metal shoe buckles as I did so.

I am a very weak, male slave, you see; fearful of the female whip and easily broken by its sharp sting.

Mistress Jocelyn seemed somewhat breathless as I kissed her black, mary-jane shoes, but I can’t really tell whether this was from her recent exertions in judiciously applying the whip to my bare back, or if it was just a further indication of her pleasure at having a broken and whipped, male slave grovelling for sweet, feminine mercy at her Afro-Caribbean feet. Since she looks to be quite a fit lady for her age, I can only assume it was the latter.

It is now the following morning and my back is still smarting as I kneel in front of my mistress Jocelyn and help her to get ready for church. She is already attired in her Sunday best, consisting of a white jacket, a matching white blouse and below-the-knee skirt, as well as a broad-brimmed white hat with a pink flower motif on the brim. My role in helping her to prepare for church is strictly limited to putting her shoes onto her feet – this time a delightful pair of shiny, black, stiletto heeled court shoes. Mistress Jocelyn is standing up as I do so, thus, as she raises her right foot off the living room floor to facilitate me in slipping her right shoe onto her shapely, Afro-Caribbean foot, she leans on the edge of an armchair in order to support herself.

It would, of course, be much easier if she was seated down. Or even, dare I say it, if mistress Jocelyn simply elected to slip her shoes onto her pretty, black feet herself. But why should a beautiful, middle-aged black woman don her own footwear when she has a whipped, personal footslave to do it for her?

The answer, of course, is that she shouldn’t!

At least there are no straps or buckles to worry about this time. The shiny, black, patent leather stilettos with the beige-coloured, inner lining simply slide onto my new mistress’s soft bare, black feet. I must still be careful, of course, not to scrape the skin on my mistress’s bare feet. I must be gentle. But the process of sliding court shoes onto a lady’s bare feet is a relatively easy one for an experienced footslave of my vintage.

Sadly, I shall not be accompanying mistress Jocelyn to church. It would truly be an honour for me to lie on my stomach under the pew at her feet, the upturned side of my face acting as a humble footrest for her stiletto-shod feet whilst she is seated, and as a prayer stool for her knees whilst she is kneeling down to pray. But for some reason the church authorities don’t approve of personal footslaves being brought into the church by members of the congregation. Any slaves that do accompany their mistresses to church must remain tethered up outside the building.

My mistress Jocelyn has already explained to me, therefore, that she can’t be bothered to take me with her to church, and besides, she wants me to mouth and hand wash her daughter Ruby’s dirty socks.

I have already, in the 2 days that I have been employed here, ascertained that although my mistress is separated from her husband, she is still, technically, married, and has two grown-up daughters. One daughter, the eldest, miss Donetta, is currently living abroad in Barbados; the other, 20 year old miss Ruby, is studying at university here in the Gynarchy.

Miss Ruby, it seems, does not live at home for most of the year – she has her own digs in the university halls of residence. However she does pop back from time to time to see her old mum, and to bring her dirty washing with her.

Her doting mother, my mistress Jocelyn, simply puts most of miss Ruby’s dirty clothes straight into the automatic washing machine, but now that she has a new personal footslave about the house she has decided that I should clean her daughter’s dirty hosiery in the traditional ‘footslave’ way – by mouth and by hand; as, indeed, I will be required to routinely wash my own mistress Jocelyn’s hosiery, consisting mainly of dark, nylon stockings and tights.

Mistress Ruby, for her part, appears to prefer wearing socks on her Afro-Caribbean, student-girl feet for as her mother, my mistress Jocelyn, leads me over on my hands and knees to the laundry basket beside the kitchen sink I can see a basket full of dirty, sweat and grass stained, mainly white socks.

The pile of dirty, feminine socks isn’t exclusively white; there are some brightly coloured socks too, and at least one pair of plain black socks. I am pleased to note that they are also comprised of many different styles – from ultra-short, stripy-coloured sneaker socks, through normal length, cartoon-print ankle socks, right up to white, knee-length tube socks with pale, pink stripes at the tops. There must be about two weeks’ worth of dirty, feminine socks in the basket!

Before she leaves for church mistress Jocelyn explains to me that her 20 year old daughter Ruby – miss Ruby to me – will be returning home this evening in order to collect her freshly laundered clothes and socks, at which point she will introduce her daughter to me so that I may pay my respects to her daughter properly by kissing and worshipping her student feet.

A vision flashes through my mind of me kneeling on the living room floor and humbly kissing the sneakered feet of a younger version of my mistress Jocelyn, beneath the frayed and dirty, flared hems of her student-girl jeans, whilst the residual taste and sock lint from the same Afro-Caribbean, student-girl’s dirty socks still lingers in my footslave mouth.

What a humbling experience that will be!

First, however, I have to do a good job on the dirty socks, and mistress Jocelyn kindly provides me with a bowl of clean water in which to hand-wash the socks, and a wooden rack on which to watch them dry, before she pushes my head, face first, down into the smelly laundry basket of dirty, stinky, student-girl socks with the leather sole of her black stiletto shoe, and orders me to start mouth-washing those same dirty socks.

Mistress Jocelyn further explains that each of her daughter’s individual dirty socks must be pre-washed in my mouth before I wash it properly by hand in the bowl of lukewarm water. Mistress Jocelyn also counsels me to sniff each dirty sock thoroughly prior to inserting it into my mouth, as she opines that it will be a good thing for me to become ‘acclimatised’ to the aroma of her daughter’s feet, since I shall, apparently, be spending much of my time at miss Ruby’s feet in between term times when the wandering student-daughter returns home to stay with her mother.

I take mistress Jocelyn up on her sound and helpful advice, and immediately begin sniffing the crusty, yellowy toe-end of a particularly fetching ultra-short, plain white sneaker-sock which is resting, along with its partner, near the top of the dirty laundry-basket.

I hear mistress Jocelyn laughing at me as she turns on her pretty, stiletto-shod heels and heads off to church, leaving me with the stench of her daughter’s sweaty socks in my nostrils – a sweaty stench which it will soon be my honour and privilege to taste inside my mouth.

For I am now the footslave of two generations of black-woman: a beautiful, middle-aged mistress and her university-student daughter, and black-female feet and footwear shall come to totally dominate my humble existence from now on.

Now please, leave me in peace, that I may concentrate on cleaning my younger mistress’s dirty, stinky socks!



Fable no. 9 – She ‘aint heavy; she’s my better

It is a slow day.

As I kneel in my private footslave-cubicle, waiting for my next female customer to enter through the cubicle door behind me, I am, somewhat selfishly, feeling sorry for myself.

That’s because I am, as ever, feeling hungry. Somehow my one, meagre meal of tasteless slave-mush every morning is never enough to satisfy my voracious appetite. I must therefore rely on my female customers’ shoe, boot and foot dirt to supplement my diet and satiate my selfish hunger pangs throughout the day – and today I just haven’t had enough customers to fill my half empty stomach.

Perhaps it is just psychological. Perhaps I am only hungry because I am bored. But I do seem to have a deep-seated fear of starving to death through lack of female foot-customers. I think it is an instinctive fear in all public footslaves. We need our customers’ footwear-dirt to survive – or at least, that’s how we feel.

Suddenly the squeaky door to my cubicle groans behind me, and I then hear it being slammed shut and locked. A customer! Thank heavens! I just hope her shoes or boots contain a lot of dirt, for my stomach is now starting to rumble.

A fetching pair of somewhat misshapen, calf-length, beige brown Ugg boots climb up onto the raised chair in front of me, and plonk themselves down awkwardly onto the metal footrest in front of my humbly bowed and kneeling face. The owner of the boots sighs with relief, seemingly exhausted by the simple effort of climbing up onto the raised, footslave-booth chair.

On closer examination, I’m not surprised the owner of the Ugg boots found it a real effort to climb up into the seat in front of me, for this is one very fat female customer. I can tell she is fat not just from the width of the beige-brown Ugg boots on her fatty calf-muscles, but also from the shape of her knees and legs above those Ugg boots. For the lady-customer is bare-legged beneath a ridiculously short black skirt – a light, cotton skirt which rides up as she sits down to reveal the cellulose on her fatty thighs. She happens to be black, and I admire the vast expanse of soft, feminine, fleshy, black leg-skin which now towers so dominantly above me.

The young woman (for, despite her considerable weight she must be no more than 25 or 26 years old) is clutching possessively onto a brown, paper bag in her right hand, almost as though she thinks I might be inclined to take it from her! The smell emanating from the bag indicates that it contains a freshly-made burger. In her other hand she is holding a large carton of drink with a straw in it.

The aroma of the delicious fast-food burger is making me even more hungry, but the superior young woman can, of course, relax. There is no way I am in a position to steal her food, chained up as I am and kneeling helplessly at her Ugg-booted feet!

The young, fat black woman takes some time to adjust herself and make herself comfortable in the chair of power above me – the ‘foot-mistress’s throne’ as it is sometimes called. The broad, rounded toes of her beige Ugg boots are now thrust directly in front of my kneeling eyes on the metal footrest – resting somewhat coyly side by side with the toes turned in towards each other. I can clearly see some black patches of ingrained dirt on the toes, and along the sides, of the thick, heavy, beige coloured boots. The smell of burger is now mixed in with the smell of musty sheepskin boot.

‘Take off my boots and socks and clean my toes.’

It is a peremptory order from my new, black mistress, delivered in a thick, African accent. But it is nonetheless clear – and exciting. I am to actually remove this superior, young woman’s outer and inner footwear, and taste her bare feet! For when she says ‘clean my toes’, we both know she means ‘by mouth’. I have no other means of cleaning her toes.

The humbling thought occurs to me that this obese, young, black woman’s toes must surely be sweaty and sticky inside her thick, sheepskin boots on such a warm, summer’s day. I cannot for the life of me comprehend why young women so often dress appropriately for the summer from the waist upwards, whilst they insist on wearing winter boots on their feet and legs even in the hottest weather.

But I’m just glad they choose to do so, for I quite like perspiring, female feet.

In any event, perhaps 30 degrees Celsius does not seem so warm to this particular mistress-visitor from Africa. Perhaps she is used to even hotter climes – and thinks nothing of wearing such heavy boots in such comparatively mild summer weather. Yet her short, black cotton skirt looks light and airy.

Anyway, none of that is really any of my business. The black mistress’s sartorial choices should be no concern of mine, and I have been given my crystal clear orders – I am to remove her Ugg boots and socks and suck clean her sweaty, African-girl toes.

I, of course, am first obliged to kiss the black-stained, rounded toes of my superior customer’s beige Ugg boots before I attempt to remove them from her feet – out of slavish respect. That goes without saying, which is fortunate as the delightful owner and wearer of the boots says nothing more as I respectfully place my lips on the dirty toe areas of her outer footwear, first the right boot, then the left.

However the African mistress does, helpfully, raise her right Ugg boot slightly off the metal footrest to facilitate me in pulling off the first of her Ugg boots. I grab the rounded, black-stained, recently kissed toe-end with one hand, rest my other hand at the back of the rounded and scrunched up sheepskin bootheel, as the young woman obligingly stretches forward her right foot, and pull.

The Ugg boot appears to be a snug fit on her fatty calf-muscle, but it eventually slides off the obese young woman’s black leg and foot, revealing a somewhat manky-looking, ultra-short, greyish-white ankle sock underneath.

It is a so-called ‘sneaker sock – low cut, and barely covering the lower half of the young woman’s fatty anklebone even when fully pulled up, although my boot-removing efforts have inadvertently partially pulled the young woman’s sock off her fleshy, black foot as well. As a result, the manky-looking, reinforced toe-end of the grey-white sock is now dangling off the end of her toes, and the back of the short sock is barely covering the toughened, dark brown skin at the back of her heel.

I am pleased to observe, however, that, despite being so obese and having cellulose thighs, the young black mistress’s feet and ankles are still quite comely and shapely. Some obese mistresses, in my humble experience, have thick, rather shapeless ankles, but crucially this particular young, black woman’s shapeless Ugg boot has been concealing a still shapely, if fleshy, ankle with quite a prominent ankle bone.

We repeat the difficult boot-removing process with her left boot, until two grey-white, socked feet are resting on the metal footrest just inches from my kneeling face. The smell of sheepskin is now replaced by the delicate aroma of feminine sweaty, white sock, but, as with the boots, it is sock I must fist kiss before I can proceed to remove it from my female better’s precious, African foot.

Again, I place a single respectful kiss on the creased toe areas of each sock – first the right, then the left, prior to the young African woman again raising each foot in turn of the metal footrest in order to facilitate her sock-removal.

Her dirty, white socks feel soft and moist, both to my lips and fingers. Unlike the Ugg boots before them, they slide off her precious, black feet with ease.

The mistress now wriggles her tired and sweaty toes in front of my kneeling nose as she places them back down onto the cooling metal footrest. It’s as if she is deliberately releasing the stink into my face – for her feet, it has to be said, are terribly sweaty. Then again, how could they possibly be otherwise, given that they have been trapped inside such thick boots, and such manky socks, on such a warm day?

I am grateful that her toes are sweaty, however, for if they weren’t she might not have felt the need to stop by my footslave-cubicle in the town square and have them cleaned by the public footslave.

Her black toes are, not surprisingly for such a big-boned girl, thick and podgy. I suppose they need to be – to support her considerable weight; weight which the young mistress appears happy to maintain as I now hear the rustling of the brown, paper bag above me as she eagerly extracts her burger and unwraps it.

The smell of fresh burger is now mixing with the smell of fresh footsweat in my sensitive footslave nostrils. Both aromas are making me hungry.

We start eating simultaneously – the mistress her burger; and me her toes. However, unlike me, the mistress is a noisy eater. I hear her mouth slapping loudly as she chews on her fattening burger, whilst I use my footslave teeth and tongue to gently begin extracting the delicate, dark toejam from underneath the unpainted, unvarnished toenail on the fat, big toe on her right foot.

‘Clean between the toes as well.’

My female customer is speaking with her mouth full, but the command is still clear. I am to remove the sweat and sock lint from the sticky, fleshy areas in between her individual toes, as well as the salty toejam from underneath her toenails.

I am unable to verbally acknowledge my African mistress’s order as my mouth is also full - full of fleshy big toe – and whilst a superior mistress may be free to speak down to a dirty slave with her mouth full of burger, it would be completely unacceptable for a slave to address his mistress with his mouth full of toejam.

But, fortunately, I don’t really need to verbally respond to the African mistress’s curt command, for we both know that I shall obey her. To do otherwise would lead to me being reported and punished by her. The one thing a female customer of a public footslave can always be assured of is good service – complete and utter obedience and respect; for we are completely at our female customers’ mercy, and the mercy of the Female State.

I’m not sure who is enjoying their meal more – the mistress or myself – as we tuck into our respective meals of burger and toejam, washed down by milkshake and footsweat.

Suddenly, however, the black mistress’s mobile phone unexpectedly rings, and she must wipe her lips and interrupt her delicious meal as she fumbles in the pocket of her lightweight, summer jacket for her vibrating phone.

I continue to suck between the mistress’s sweaty toes.

She eventually locates her phone and manages to stop the annoying ringtone. She shouts down the phone in her native tongue, a language I’m ashamed to say that I cannot identify. Although she is shouting, she does not appear to be angry. She is merely one of those unselfconscious mistresses who thinks nothing of talking loudly down the phone, largely because she regards herself as being at the centre of the universe and is therefore unabashed at being the centre of attention.

The person on the other end of the phone appears to be speaking loudly also, for I can clearly hear a male, African voice.

I wish I knew what the conversation was about. Is it about me? Or am I just a toe-sucking irrelevance at the fat, African mistress’s feet? The African couple are laughing now. Surely they must be laughing at me? Surely the mistress must be happily telling her boyfriend about the pathetic public footslave who is having to kneel at her feet, chew on her dark toejam, and suck on her moist foot perspiration?

I surreptitiously glance over towards the young woman’s discarded, grey and white socks whilst I suck on her podgy, freshly-liberated toes, for the socks’ mankiness reminds me just how sweaty and dirty her feet were inside her heavy, sheepskin boots.

I’m pleased to say that the mistress’s feet aren’t so sweaty and dirty now, thanks to my humble toe-sucking efforts. Her beautiful, black feet are now glistening with my footslave-saliva, as her sweat has been transferred down my throat.

The noisy phone conversation taking place over my head ends, only to be replaced, once again, by the mistress’s equally noisy eating. At one point she even lets out an involuntary belch, which she washes away with her slurpy milkshake. Soon the straw in her milkshake is noisily slurping up air, as the mistress has clearly reached the end of her drink and her meal.

The beautiful, black mistress scrunches up the empty burger bag and drink carton, and nonchalantly throws them down onto the floor of my otherwise clean and tidy footslave-cubicle. I shall doubtless be punished for making that mess later by my mistress-supervisor.

‘Finish now, pig.’

My African customer-mistress belches again, and I hear her lick her lips and pick her teeth, as I reach for the foot-drying towel beside me and gently rub my dirty saliva off her nice, clean, African feet.

Even if I say so myself, I have done a good job. The African mistress’s bare, black feet now look clean and refreshed. There is no more evidence of any sweaty toejam beneath or between her unvarnished toenails.

What a shame, therefore, that I now have to put her still sweaty, grey-white sneaker socks back onto her nice, clean feet! The very act of doing so is humbling – for it reminds me that all my hard work has been nugatory. The residual sweat from her grubby, white socks will soon reinfect her soft, black, African feet.

But the mistress appears unconcerned. She just wants her socks and boots put back onto her feet, so that she can walk away from me. To this end, once again she is a very obliging mistress, raising each chubby foot in turn off the metal footrest to better enable me to smooth the soft, cotton socks back onto her feet. I kiss each of the white socks on her feet before they disappear forever back into her beige sheepskin Ugg boots.

For I sense that I am unlikely to ever see or serve this beautiful, superior, fat mistress ever again. She has not bothered to congratulate me on my work, or to thank me. She is clearly not impressed by my efforts.

I hear her grunt and groan as, booted and socked, she raises her now even heavier frame up out of the footmistress’s throne and steps down from the booth. Her right Ugg boot inadvertently kicks the remains of her meal-wrapper as she then walks towards the cubicle door behind my humbly kneeling and lightweight frame. I hear her tut with annoyance, as though it was my fault that she had stepped into her discarded burger-wrapper.

In law, of course, it is my fault. For I am her slave.

I find myself, somewhat selfishly, hoping that she may have inadvertently managed to get a ketchup stain on the toe of her Ugg boot? My heart leaps! She may have to get back up into the raised chair in order to have me lick the ketchup off her sheepskin boot! Wouldn’t that be a tasty treat for a footslave’s mouth! Ketchup mixed with dirty Ugg boot!

But no, she just kicks the wrapper to one side, straightens the hem of her black, cotton miniskirt, and undoes the latch of the footslave-cubicle door.

And then she is gone, leaving only the lingering smell of her sheepskin boot and cheeseburger in my footslave nostrils, and the lingering taste of her sweaty toejam in my footslave mouth.





Fable no. 8 – Not Fade Away

I have been in service as a public footslave at the same ‘stand-up’ footslave-booth on the edge of a provincial town square for over 20 years.

I am now in my mid fifties.

One of the many advantages of being a long-term footslave at the same booth is that you really get to know your regular, female customers – their tastes in footwear; their likes and dislikes when it comes to having their beloved feet and footwear worshipped and attended to in public; which in turn helps you to provide a better service and to be an all-round better footslave to your female betters.

On the other hand (or should that be on the other foot?) one’s customers often have busy and exciting female lives to lead – lives which inevitably will take them away from you as they move onwards and upwards; perhaps on promotion; or through marriage to a free man; or just because they want a change of scenery in their lives. After all, a female customer is free to live her life howsoever she pleases, and to do whatsoever she wants. It is only permanent, male slaves like myself who must remain chained up, kissing feet, wherever the Female State has placed us.

I shall undoubtedly die at my provincial footslave-stand.

One inevitably, therefore, gets to know, and then sadly comes to miss, the feet and footwear of those esteemed, female customers who have moved on in life – who have left their erstwhile regular, provincial, public footslave behind in the dirt to kiss other ladies’ feet.

Just occasionally, however, one is blessed by the reappearance of a former customer’s feet after many years. And just such a happy event occurred the other day.

It was a slow morning – customer wise – perhaps because of the showery weather. My cheap, provincial footslave-stand offers no protection either to myself or to my superior, female customers from the elements, and so only the most resilient of mistresses tend to use me on a rainy day – even though, paradoxically, their shoes and boots are in most need of a lick and a shine in such inclement weather.

At about 10:30 A.M, however, in a gap between the showers, the shapely, flesh-toned, stockinged legs of a slim looking businesswoman in her mid 40s walked up to my stand. Although the heavy chain around my kneeling neck was fairly efficient in doing its age-old job of keeping my head humbly bowed over the wooden footblock beneath my footslave face (a footblock which, incidentally, rather like my aforementioned face, was beginning to show signs of its age) I was still able to establish out of the corner of my eye that the bleached-blonde businesswoman was smartly dressed in a dark grey, pinstriped suit consisting of a below the knee skirt, a matching pinstriped jacket, and a crisp, white blouse.

On her feet, the businesswoman-mistress was wearing an equally smart pair of black, suede leather, court shoes – shoes which had fairly rounded toes and a one inch high, blocky-style, black leather heel. What I would call a sensible pair of business lady’s shoes – stylish, modern, yet appropriate for the office.

Normally I dread seeing a pair of suede leather shoes approaching my footslave-stand, for suede can be notoriously difficult to tongue-clean. It’s not like the relatively easy task of licking mud and dirt off shiny, black patent leather shoes, for example. Dirt and dust often sticks to soft, suede leather – and yet, if a mistress desires her suede leather shoes to be cleaned by the public footslave, then cleaned they must be, however hard the slave must lick, and however long it may take.

Moreover, it can be a task made all the harder in rainy weather such as today when the streets of our little town are muddy with rain water. I can already see splashes of brown water along the suede sides of the smartly-dressed, business lady’s black, court shoes!

I therefore breathe a sigh of relief when, having arrogantly placed her hands on both her hips, hitched up the hem of her dark grey, pinstriped skirt to just above her knee, and positioned her right foot onto the ageing wooden footblock beneath my ageing face, the (relatively) young businesswoman merely orders me to kiss the toe of her suede shoe.

My female customers don’t always want their footwear to be licked clean; some just get a feminine buzz out of having me worship and respect their dirty footwear by kissing it. Thankfully, this would appear to be one such, middle-aged mistress.

As I obediently lowered my experienced footslave lips to the soft, black suede leather material covering the lady’s nylon-stockinged toes, I noticed, with pleasure, that the toe area of her court shoe did not quite cover the whole of her toes, and that beneath the finest-denier, flesh-coloured stocking I could just make out the little divides in between her delicate, white, individual toes. Always a pleasing sight!

I say beneath her ‘stocking’, but she may, of course, have been wearing nylon tights. Such details are an irrelevance to a humble footslave, since he must only be concerned with the foot area of a woman’s nylon hosiery. It is for free men – for male lovers – to try to determine whether or not an attractive lady is wearing stockings or tights! To me, they are just nylon foot-coverings.

I bobbed my lips respectfully up and down several times onto the suede leather toe of the businesslady’s imperiously outstretched shoe, admiring the aforementioned divides between her nylon-stockinged toes with each kiss, before the superior, besuited businesslady suddenly asked me if I did not recognise her feet?

To my shame, I had to confess to the superior mistress standing over me that I did not, and braced myself for a stroke of the public-use footslave-whip which hangs on the wall behind me, as the businesslady-mistress was clearly expecting me to recognise her feet!

Mercifully, however, she just laughed – and put me out of my cringing misery. She revealed that she was mistress Heather – one of my former regular customers from over 20 years ago!

The memories, now prompted by the sound of her voice, suddenly came flooding back to me. Mistress Heather! Of course! I do remember her! Mistress Heather! My word – she must have been in her early to mid twenties when I had last had the honour of serving at her feet at this selfsame public footslave-stand!

I remembered her as a slim and svelte girl with long, blonde hair who had a penchant for wearing spike-heeled shoes and boots, including a particularly memorable pair of black leather, thigh length boots – which she sometimes even wore to her place of work! What was it she had done for a living? She had been a secretary of some kind – in an office. That’s right! A junior secretary – but always very ambitious, I seem to remember. Always sleeping with her male bosses, allegedly!

Mistress Heather! Well I never! And isn’t she still looking well? More sensible shoes, now, obviously! The 5-inch, spike-heeled shoes and black, leather thigh-length boots are presumably now long gone from her wardrobe! But she is still looking good! Still slim; still shapely of leg and ankle; still blonde – albeit with shorter length hair now, and hair which she has seemingly had to bleach in order to retain its youthful blondeness!

I immediately began kissing the toe of mistress Heather’s outstretched, suede leather, court shoe with renewed energy and vigour, as I verbally praised and blessed the long-lost mistress and thanked her for visiting my permanent footslave-stand once again after all these years.

She just laughed at me. She said she was pleased to see that I was still here, still kneeling in the same piece of dirt at the edge of the town square, and still kissing ladies’ dirty shoes and boots. She explained that she had made enquiries about me on her return visit to her home town, and that as soon as she had heard I was still here, she had asked her male PA to set aside some time for her in her busy diary so that she could visit me once again.

She explained that since she had left her provincial, home town some 20 years ago, she had become a successful businesswoman – running her own whip-manufacturing business. Indeed she was pleased to note that the public-use whip hanging behind my footslave stand had been made in one of her factories! She laughed as she informed me that I therefore had her to thank, indirectly at least, for the many stripes across my bare back!

She went on to explain that she now lived in a swish penthouse apartment in the capital, although she also had several other properties in other locations throughout the world, and that she was married, with two grown-up children who were currently at university. She explained that she was very rich and happy, and a success in life – and that this was one of the reasons why she had wanted to look me up again, so that I would have the opportunity to praise and bless her, and congratulate her on her success by humbly kissing and worshipping her feet again.

She asked me if I remembered kissing her feet all those years ago when she had been a humble secretary in another company? I replied that I did, and even informed mistress Heather that I remembered, with great fondness, her spike heeled and pointy-toed, black leather, lace-up, thigh length boots - boots which I had spent many hours licking and cleaning over the 3 or 4 years that she had made regular use of my footslave-tongue during those bygone times.

Mistress Heather laughed, and said that she remembered how difficult it had always been for me to raise my ugly head high enough in order to lick the upper halves of her thigh-length boots. She remembered, as I now did too, how she had had to crouch down and grab my head by the hair in order to afford my mouth access to the tops of her boots. She then commented that she wouldn’t be able to do so now because I had lost so much of my hair in the intervening years!

She laughed at my bald head, and said that it looked a bit like a big, round stone. She then opined that there should at least be some moss covering my head as it was surely only a rolling stone that gathered no moss, and yet I hadn’t been able to move in over twenty years!

She then assured me that in any case I wouldn’t have any difficulties licking clean her footwear nowadays as she no longer wore such extreme, high-heeled boots, preferring instead her low-cut, and comparatively low-heeled, black suede leather court shoes, and she expressed the opinion that thigh length boots would no longer be appropriate for a ‘woman of her age’ to wear.

I begged to differ! I informed mistress Heather that she was still, in my humble footslave eyes, a most attractive and stunning young woman (I did, genuinely, still think of mistress Heather as being ‘young’, since she was still some 10 years my junior – and always would be!)

Mistress Heather just laughed at me again, and ordered me to stop talking and attempting to ingratiate myself with her, and to resume kissing her shoe. She reminded me that she was not, and never had been, my friend. She was my mistress, and I was nothing but her public footslave. I must remember my place.

She then pulled over the optional seat provided for those female customers who prefer to sit, rather than stand, whilst having their footwear attended to, and readjusted her right foot on my wooden footblock once she had made herself comfortable in the chair above me.

I noted to myself, with sheer delight, that the sheer nylon material of mistress Heather’s flesh-coloured stocking was now ever so slightly creased beneath her still shapely, right anklebone as I once again lowered my lips to the soft, black, somewhat dusty, suede leather material of the rounded toe of her court shoe.

It was as if mistress Heather could still read my pathetic footslave-mind, even after all these years, for she next explained to me that her PA had set aside 3 whole hours this morning out of her busy schedule to enable her to have her feet and shoes properly worshipped by her former public footslave, and that I would therefore have plenty of time to pay my humble respects to every part of her feet and footwear. However she wanted me to begin by concentrating on the rounded toe area of her shoe. Mistress Heather herself would decide if and when I could place my lips onto the other areas of her shoes, and then onto her finest-denier nylon stockings.

This reminded me that mistress Heather had always been something of a ‘control-freak’ – one of those mistresses who insist on dictating exactly which area of their footwear is to be kissed or licked at any given time. Unlike those mistresses – the majority – who prefer to leave it up to the footslave’s discretion, whilst they concentrate on higher things, such as making calls on their mobile phones; or reading their newspapers; or consuming their croissants and coffees.

But no – mistress Heather was not, and never would be, such a ‘laissez-faire’ mistress. She liked to dictate every small aspect of her footslave’s homage to her superior feet and footwear – as is her perfect right to do so! She would also decide exactly when to change feet on my footblock as she sat there imperiously above me, looking down on my chained neck – the same scrawny, male neck, and the same heavy chain, that she had gleefully looked down upon all those years ago whilst wearing her stylish, thigh-length, leather boots!

Worryingly, just as she had finally given me the long-awaited order to kiss the side of her nylon-stockinged ankle, it started to rain again. I was afraid that mistress Heather might decide to cut short her gracious visit to my footslave-stand, but she merely laughed, put up her umbrella in order to protect her pretty clothes and hair, and then ordered me to continue kissing her nylon-stockinged ankle.

Her foot, being outstretched before her onto the wooden footblock, was not protected from the rain underneath her umbrella, and so I experienced little droplets of rainwater on the fine mesh of her flesh-coloured, nylon stocking as I paid my slavish homage to her shapely, stockinged anklebone with my slave lips.

Thankfully it was only a light shower, and mistress Heather was soon able to fold up her umbrella again. Indeed, the sun even came out, and I spent the next 3 hours or so adoringly kissing the successful mistress Heather’s feet in bright sunlight, which now gave her finest-denier nyloned feet a shimmering glow inside the opaque black leather of her suede, court, office shoes. It seemed as though each and every individual stitch in her flesh-coloured nylon stocking was now clearly visible to me – especially where the fine, nylon material was stretched around her delicate, feminine anklebones.

All the while I was kissing and worshipping her pretty feet and stockings, mistress Heather was telling me about how exciting and wonderful her life had been throughout the past 20 years, and she was laughing at me and mocking me for having been, by way of total contrast to her, chained up on my knees over this same, cheap wooden footblock in this same square of this same provincial town during all that time.

She stressed to me that, whereas I had been nowhere and achieved nothing, she was truly a great success. However, she opined that at least I was now able to taste some of her success through my kissing of her feet. She even graciously raised up the dirty, light-brown coloured, leather soles of her black, court shoes so that I could taste where she had been, since she was free to walk about wherever she so pleases, and I am not.

I was eternally grateful to lucky mistress Heather for this small act of mistressly kindness and compassion towards a loser such as myself, and vowed to keep the dirt from the soles of her shoes inside my mouth for as long as possible. It is the closest I will ever get to tasting success.

After some three hours of vigorous shoe and stocking kissing, mistress Heather got bored with me and once again decided to move on. She gleefully informed me that I was unlikely to ever see her again as she would shortly be leaving the Gynarchy, selling her business for a huge profit, and taking early retirement in order to move to one of her holiday homes in an exclusive tropical island resort in the Caribbean. She urged me to continue to kiss my female betters’ shoes and boots with respect, as I was nothing but a loser-footslave, and kissing female feet was all I was good for.

She then stood up, returned the optional chair to its storage position, and began to walk away.

Suddenly, however, she turned back, and with a wry and supercilious smile on her still pretty, blonde face picked up the public-use slave-whip from the back of my footslave-stand, ran it lovingly and admiringly through her now slightly bony, middle-aged fingers, and then brought it down sharply across my bent-over, bare back and shoulders.

She laughed at me, and said that now I had a stripe from the manufacturer of the whip herself, with which to remember her by!

I thanked and blessed mistress Heather for my stinging stripe, and just wished that the sting and the redness, like mistress Heather herself, would not fade away out of my miserable and pathetic life again.




Fable no. 7 – Desperation

I am reduced to trying to ‘tout’ myself as a personal footslave in the unofficial slave market.

The Female State, which made me redundant in the first place, is not prepared to waste the female taxpayers’ money in attempting to resell me. I have been cast out onto the footslave-scrapheap, and my only hope of long-term survival is to find myself a new owner or owners – someone who is not too fussy about the quality of their new slave and who is looking for a bargain-basement footslave.

In fact – a free slave; free in the sense that he will not cost them anything to purchase or to keep. A slave who can be fed on scraps and dirt. A slave who is expendable. A desperate slave, who will be prepared to do anything for a roof over his head and some feminine shoedirt in his otherwise empty belly.

Trouble is, I am not the only ex public-footslave in this position in these straightened times. There are literally hundreds of us. Even the backstreet alleyway where I am so desperately seeking for new owners is filled with about a dozen ex public-footslaves who are seeking to do exactly the same as me.

And we can expect only about 6 or 7 potential ‘employers’ per day – many of them only seeking slaves on short-term contracts. Finding a new, permanent mistress in such circumstances would be truly something of a miracle!

But as we all know, miracles can happen, and my hopes are suddenly raised when I see an Indian man and his wife, both dressed in traditional Indian clothing, approaching my ‘pitch’ in the dark and shady alleyway.

They look respectable. Not rich, exactly - but respectable. Certainly out of place in such an insalubrious alleyway. They must be nearly as desperate to find a cheap slave, as I am to be found, if they have to resort to looking for a personal slave in such an unofficial manner down a dark and dingy alleyway such as this!

I am, of course, already on my hands and knees as they walk towards me, arm in arm, but I lower my head respectfully to the ground as they approach me.

Redundancy has not made me lose any of my footslave manners.

The Indian couple look to both be in their fifties. I would have preferred a younger mistress, but then 'beggars can’t be choosers'; especially not out of work, footslave-beggars!

The woman, who is wearing a sari, stretches forward her brown-sandalled, right foot in the dust beneath my kneeling face, and I immediately lower my lips to her soft, brown, if slightly wrinkly-looking bare footskin between the two, brown leather sandal straps that criss-cross the top of her foot.

I kiss her middle-aged Indian foot. I try to look on the bright side as I do so. It is still a shapely foot – a female foot worth serving. Besides, I’m no spring chicken myself! This beautiful Indian lady in her bright yellow, silken sari must be no more than 5 or 6 years my senior!

Her husband, who is wearing a white shirt, traditional, white, Indian trousers and a matching turban, says nothing as I pay my humble footslave-respects to his wife’s (for I presume she is his wife) outstretched, right foot.

The only reaction from the lady herself is an audible smirk, and the withdrawal of her right foot from the dirt underneath my face, only to be replaced by her equally shapely left foot.

Again I offer my slavish respects by gently lowering my lips to the top of her outstretched, leather-sandalled foot.

This time the lady speaks, in English, but with a very strong Indian accent:

‘Mmm…he is kissing feet very well, Parvir. I am thinking that maybe he will be meeting our needs, my darling husband.’

I feel smug. Firstly, because my humble foot-kissing skills have been acknowledged by a superior, Indian lady; and secondly, because I was right about surmising that the Indian gentleman accompanying her is indeed her husband.

And I now know his name – master Parvir.

Master Parvir replies to his wife in a somewhat sceptical tone:

‘Perhaps so, my darling, but we will still be having to interrogate him before we are agreeing to be taking him. After all, any fool can kiss feet!’

My smugness is rudely curtailed – largely because I have to acknowledge the veracity of the Indian Sikh gentleman’s disparaging statement: any fool can indeed kiss feet – that’s precisely why I was employed as a humble, public footslave in the first place!

The Indian lady laughs at her husband’s witty remark and withdraws her delightful, left foot from underneath my face as she adjusts her silken headscarf – which is yellow to match her sari:

‘Very well, Parvir, we shall be asking the wretched fellow some questions first…You, down there, the slave, what is being your name?’

This Indian couple must be out-of-towners – visitors to the Gynarchy - for if they lived here permanently they would surely know that slaves no longer have names, not even private slaves. The Female Parliament recently passed a law outlawing slave names - as a name gives a male footslave too much status, in the eyes of the Female Law. We are now referred to as just ‘slave’; or ‘footslave’, or by our official slave numbers – although some rebellious, young mistresses do still like to give their personal slaves derogatory nicknames, such as ‘footpig’; or ‘footslut’. The State tolerates such insulting nicknames, as they are actually seen as demeaning the male slave even further.

But I’m sure this nice, kind, if somewhat naïve, middle-aged Indian lady is not wishing to know whether I have a slave-nickname or not. She wants to know my official name – and I haven’t got one!

All I can do is respectfully give her my footslave number:

‘Oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you most respected Indian mistress, this slave does not have a name as such, but is known by the slave number ‘FS45673C9987’, if you would be so kind most respected, Indian mistress.’

Both she and her husband laugh out loud:

‘Ha! Ha! It is not exactly being “rolling off the tongue”, is it footslave?’ opines the Indian mistress. ‘I am not being sure that our daughter will be remembering such a complicated number! Ha! Ha!’

Daughter? The couple have a daughter? My heart starts to race! Why would their daughter need to remember my slave number? Could they possibly be thinking of obtaining me for their daughter?

The thought of serving a beautiful, younger, Indian woman – the daughter of this good-looking , middle-aged Sikh couple – fills me with slavish hope, and I find myself stretching my bowed neck forwards to place yet more kisses onto the middle-aged Indian lady’s bare, exposed toenails beneath her brown, leather sandal straps:

‘Oh pray, mistress, please forgive me, mistress, that I do not have a more memorable slave-number for your daughter to memorize, if you would be so kind and forgiving most blessed and respected Indian mistress.’

The lady laughs down at me again:

‘Ha! Ha! Look Parvir; see how keen this wretched fellow is to serve us. Amneeta will be being very pleased with his humble attitude, in my opinion!’

Amneeta! That must be the daughter’s name. Of course, being a free, young woman she will have a name, a name deserving of my footslavish-respect; a name I shall always be required to preface with the title of ‘miss’ or ‘mistress’.

Mistress Amneeta. I like the sound of that! God bless you, mistress Amneeta. Please don’t beat me, mistress Amneeta. If it pleases you, most beautiful and kind mistress Amneeta!

Yes, I very much like the sound of that!

But I’m not there yet. This Indian couple have not yet even decided to ‘take’ me – although the lady, miss Amneeta’s mother, seems to like me.

The man, however, master Parvir, is being very quiet.

I don’t like toadying and grovelling to other men – even free men – but I will do just about anything to ingratiate myself with master Parvir, if it means this Indian family will be persuaded to take me in.

I am truly desperate for feet to kiss!

At last my potential master speaks to me. He lays things clearly on the line to me – for which I am eternally grateful to him:

‘Stupid slave, my wife and I are being seeking a personal slave for our daughter, Amneeta. You will be being her 21st birthday present…but I am not being convinced that you are being the right fellow for this job. You are being old and ugly, and my daughter is being young and beautiful. I am not being convinced that she will be wanting an ugly old fellow like you underneath her feet all day!’

I lower my face into the dust directly in front of master Parvir’s feet (for the Female Law prohibits me from actually kissing male feet), and seek to reassure the Sikh master, through my humble words and demeanour, that his daughter’s feet will be in good hands should he do me the honour of selecting me for servitude in his esteemed, Indian household:

‘Oh pray master, if it pleases you master, this slave would truly deem it an honour to serve at your most beautiful and respected daughter’s feet, and would ensure that his ugly face in no way detracted from the beauty of the young mistress’s feet, but rather enhanced their beauty through his facial ugliness, if it would be so pleasing to you most respected Indian master.’

The master’s wife erupts into hysterics at my obsequious, slave-speak vows of self-deprecating humility:

‘Ha! Ha! Just listen to this lowly creature, Parvir. He is being most amusing. Our beloved Amneeta will be laughing at him also. He is being such a wretch and a fool!’

I’m delighted to hear master Parvir laughing out loud at me also as I grovel in the dirt at his, and his wife’s, feet.

When they have both finished laughing at me, however, the mistress (whose name, I am ashamed to say, I still don’t know), suddenly darkens her tone as she straightens her silken, yellow headscarf and addresses me directly once again:

‘You are being quite an impudent fellow, slave! What is making you think that you are being worthy to serve our beloved daughter as her personal footslave? Perhaps you are being thinking that you will be finding life easy as the personal slave of a nice, demure Indian girl?...Ha! Ha!...Is that what you are thinking, dirty, stupid slave?’

I immediately seek to reassure Madam that I am thinking no such thing (even though I am!):

‘Oh pray mistress, God bless you mistress. This slave would never dare to be so presumptuous, most powerful and respected master and mistress, as to think any such thing of your most respected daughter, Indian master and mistress, as this ignorant slave knows nothing but fear and respect for his female betters, should it be so pleasing to you most merciful, Indian master and mistress.’

The mistress clicks her teeth and laughs out loud again:

‘Ha! Ha! I am being very glad to hear it, slaveboy! For our daughter, Amneeta, is being a most wilful and impetuous young woman. She is having little respect for her elders – not even for her poor father (she looks wistfully at her husband, master Parvir, at this point) – and will most certainly be despising a dirty and despicable slave-fellow such as yourself!’

Her husband, master Parvir, interjects in a gleeful tone at this point:

‘Yes, slave…you can be expecting to be feeling the sting of my daughter’s whip on your dirty back if you are becoming her personal footslave. She is being most adept with the whip on impudent servants, and will be sure to mark you as her own by awarding you with many painful stripes! Ha! Ha!’

Again, I seek to reassure the master and mistress of my readiness to submit to miss Amneeta’s whip – however harsh and unforgiving its sting may be:

‘Oh pray master, oh pray mistress, this slave truly fears and respects the female whip, and is no stranger to its harsh embrace. Indeed, this slave craves the female whip, for without it he is unwanted and undisciplined, like a slave who has lost the protective and righteous embrace of his mistress’s whip, if it is so pleasing to you master and mistress!’

I must have satisfied the dominant, Indian couple on my ability to take the whip, as the mistress moves on to another potential hurdle:

‘Ha! Ha! Also, our beloved daughter will be working you most hard, you ridiculous footslave-coolie! Our daughter Amneeta is being having many pairs of shoes and boots, all of which she will be making you polish and clean with your slave-tongue! Our daughter is being very much preferring to wear modern, western style clothing, so you will be having to be licking clean many pairs of her dirty sneakers and ankle boots, as well as to be washing her dirty socks and stockings in your ugly, slave mouth. Ha! Ha! She is not often being wearing pretty sandals on her bare feet as I am doing today! But you will be having no choice in the matter, for you will be having to be cleaning and worshipping the chosen footwear of our beloved daughter, however distasteful that may be to you, dirty slave!’

Again, I feel I can put mistress Amneeta’s mother’s mind at rest on this point:

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave does indeed truly admire the mistress’s most precious and beautiful bare foot inside her most beautiful, open-toed, brown leather, Indian sandals, if it is so pleasing to you most kind and respected mistress, but this slave is equally respectful of young, westernized, Asian women’s sneakers, boots and socks, if it is so pleasing to you mistress, as he has formerly been employed for many years as a public footslave in the town square, during which time he attended with his tongue to many and varied types of feminine footwear belonging to superior mistresses from many differing ethnic backgrounds, if you would be so kind most revered Indian master and mistress.’

The master snorts, but the mistress seems convinced by my obsequious, slave-speak ramblings:

She addresses her more sceptical husband once again:

‘Oh Parvir, do let us be taking him for our daughter. He is truly being a most suitable individual for our daughter’s feet. As he has said, his ugliness will merely be compensating for her beauty. I am being sure she will be rejoicing in having him as her personal foot-servant, and, as we were being discussing earlier, the lowly fellow will be costing us nothing! He can be surviving on the very dirt from the soles of our beloved daughter Amneeta’s boots! Ha! Ha!’

The master, it seems, is still not convinced, however:

‘My darling wife, I am preferring it if we are first bringing our daughter Amneeta to be seeing the wretch for herself. She is being such a wilful and headstrong girl. She will most certainly not be obeying us if we are trying to choose her personal slave for her! Let us wait and see. This fellow can be waiting here a few more days in the dirt!’

The traditionally-clothed, submissive Indian wife accedes to her husband’s suggestion – even here in the Gynarchy - and the middle aged, Indian couple leave me on tenterhooks for the next few days.

It is a barren few days. I have no other interested parties approaching me in the meantime, but at least I can cling onto the hope that – if and when miss Amneeta is brought to see me – I can persuade her through my grovelling servility that I am right for her as a foot-servant, just as I seem to have convinced her mother.

In my humble experience, few, if any, ladies can resist a respectful kiss to their foot!

I am just starting to despair of ever seeing the dominant Indian couple again however, when, some 5 days later, I espy the same, bright yellow sari and white shirt, trousers and turban walking towards me down the alleyway, this time accompanied by a pair of calf-length, blue, denim jeans, a bright pink T shirt and pink, high-top, converse sneakers.

The pink, converse sneakers of miss Amneeta! They must be!

The Indian threesome approach me as I kneel in the alleyway dirt, my head once again humbly bowed in the presence of my superiors, and potential new owners.

Once again it is the talkative, middle-aged, Indian lady, the traditionally attired mother of the seemingly ‘westernised’ miss Amneeta, who speaks first:

‘Amneeta darling, this is being the queer footkisser we were telling you about! Your father and I are both thinking that he would be making an excellent footslave for you? Kindly be stretching forward your foot in the dirt for him to humbly kiss, my darling daughter.’

I pucker my lips ready to comply with her mother’s orders, and to kiss the dirty, scuffed toe of miss Amneeta's pink converse shoe, just as soon as the dark-haired, 21 year old Indian girl deigns to stretch her foot out before me in the alleyway dirt. I even notice, with a twinge of footslavish delight, that the young Indian woman is wearing what appear to be plain, white ankle socks inside her pink, high-top, converse sneakers, as I can just see the elasticated top of a white, cotton sock against the soft, brown skin of her right leg beneath the somewhat frayed, calf-length hem of her blue denim jean.

I should be able to get an even better view of the top of that white ankle sock when sweet and kind miss Amneeta eventually stretches forward her Indian foot for kissing. Perhaps I will even be able to kiss the exposed top of her white, cotton ankle sock – a highly intimate gesture which I know from experience many young mistresses find exhilarating, as they love to really feel a slave’s lips on their ankle through the protective softness of their sock.

But it is not to be, for miss Amneeta suddenly screams at her mother petulantly:

‘God, mother –surely you must be joking with me! This slave is being so damned old and ugly! I am not letting his damned, dirty lips anywhere near my nice sneakers! I am not being that desperate for a personal footslave!’

And the delightfully scuff-marked pink, converse, high-top sneakers and sweet, white ankle socks turn round and storm off in a cloud of dust that gets into my eyes!

It is then that I see another sight for sore eyes – the familiar, outstretched, right, sandalled foot of miss Amneeta’s mother.

She is once again laughing at me, mockingly:

‘Ha! Ha! It seems that you are not being good enough for my daughter after all, slave. She always did be having good taste! Ha! Ha! Never mind, you poor and wretched old slave. You may at least be kissing my foot one more time. And please do not be worrying your stupid, ugly head about our daughter Amneeta’s future - there are being plenty more slaves that we can be looking at for our beloved daughter! Ha! Ha! You, however, will just have to be staying here in your dirty, backstreet-alleyway. Ha! Ha! Be kissing my Indian foot one last time, you ridiculous, loser-slave!’

Master Parvir also laughs at me as I contritely and obediently kiss his haughty wife’s dusty, sandalled foot beneath the flowing hem of her yellow, silken sari, his petulant daughter’s sneaker-dust still stinging in my suitably despairing and downcast eyes.




Fable no. 6 – My Infinite Superior and Better

I am the personal footslave of most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia.

I am totally in awe of my mistress – even though a more objective observer might identify several flaws both in her physical appearance and in her character.

With regard to her physical appearance, my most esteemed and respected mistress is 27 years old (though she looks older); white; with mousey-blonde, curly, if somewhat greasy, shoulder-length hair; and she has a rather large bosom which the free men all seem to admire. Certainly her live-in boyfriend, master Samuel, seems to like her ample bosoms, when he can be bothered to actually ‘live in’, that is. I hear that he is currently residing at another lady’s establishment back in his home country of Jamaica, though the complicated and tangled international love lives of my free superiors and betters should really be no concern of mine.

Mistress Sylvia is, however, not just big-bosomed. She is also more generally overweight – a beautiful, young woman, but in a decidedly podgy sort of way. And she is getting fatter as the years go by – largely because my most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia has a very sweet tooth and loves her cakes and biscuits.

I, meanwhile, am getting thinner as the years go by, largely because most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia does not think it appropriate that a dirty, male slave such as myself should be permitted to eat human food – not even her scraps and leftovers. I therefore have to survive on one bowl of cheap and tasteless slave-gruel per day.

My most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia is also quite selfish and humourless. She always has a suitably stern expression on her jowly face - at least in her dealings with me, her despised, personal footslave – and she gives the impression of being a rather sullen and surly mistress.

By extension, she demands that I am constantly downcast in my demeanour. She demands, however, that I should appear downcast and downtrodden without being surly and miserable – for surliness on my part would be interpreted by others as disrespect towards my most kind and gracious mistress Sylvia. Surliness is a quality reserved for a free mistress, such as her. I must be slavishly happy with my downtrodden lot – yet convey that contentment with a constantly pained expression on my pathetic and gormless male-footslave features.

And speaking of pained expressions, my most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia generously facilitates me in maintaining a suitably downtrodden and oppressed demeanour by not only keeping me subdued under her feet, but also through her frequent use of the female whip on my bare, male back and shoulders.

Her single-tailed, brown leather knout is always hanging ominously by her side – just as I am always kneeling submissively by her feet – and although my most esteemed mistress may be quite slow-witted at times, she is ever quick to whip.

It is just about the only exercise she gets – whipping me. Indeed, the female whip is her answer to everything – to gross, or even minor, ineptitude on my part; to any perceived disobedience on my part; to any perceived insolence or disrespect on my part; or even just to her own sweet, feminine frustration with me, and her desire to inflict pain on a lower being.

However intellectually challenged my fat, dirty-blonde, curly-haired mistress may be, I do have to humbly acknowledge that she is, though it literally pains me to say it, extremely clever in her use of the whip – for it certainly has the desired effect of imbuing me with complete and unquestioning obedience and respect for my superior mistress – as does her sweet, feminine insistence that I repeatedly kiss her superior, feminine feet throughout the day.

You would expect, of course, that a mistress’s personal footslave would be required to kiss his mistress’s feet at various times throughout the day – but my most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia is what is known as a ‘perpetuant’ mistress; she demands the constant reassurance of her footslave’s lips on her precious feet and footwear throughout the day and night. I must even sleep on my knees at the foot of her bed with my lips resting on her bare, night-time feet underneath her duvet.

Indeed, just about the only time my lips are not in perpetual contact with my mistress’s feet is when she is chastising me. That’s because, of course, she has to stand behind me in order to whip me as I kneel with my bare back exposed to her in the whipping stocks which master Samuel, a skilled carpenter, had built for her. Even then, however, I must focus my slavish attention on her sweet, feminine feet as they move behind me in perfect rhythm with the blows of the whip.

I do find that concentrating on my most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia’s feet during a whipping in the stocks helps me to bear the stinging pain.

And with regard to her feet I am pleased to say that I am, right now, in a humble, kneeling position that enables me to give you a detailed description of my most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia’s divinely feminine feet and footwear.

Her beautiful feet are, in common with the rest of her beautiful, soft, white body, somewhat chubby, but still retain their feminine shapeliness around the ankles. My mistress’s feet, however, do contain several areas of hard, dry, white skin on the backs of her somewhat reddened heels, and on the balls of her otherwise pinky-white feet. Her chubby toenails are also somewhat discoloured and chipped.

I suspect that all of these imperfections on my mistress Sylvia’s bare feet are the result of their having to carry her heavy weight, but, be that as it may, my mistress Sylvia will not permit me to pedicure her feet. That’s because she regards me as mere, unskilled labour, and she therefore will not let me smooth away the rough edges of her chipped toenails with my footslave-teeth, or lick away her dead heel-skin with my footslave-tongue. If the truth be told, I think she quite likes humiliating me with the constant sight of her rough, hardened heel-skin and her imperfect, discoloured toenails.

My mistress’s feet also have a more or less permanent aroma of ammonia and moistness about them. She should really have me wash her feet more often. But she does not – for, again, my most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia prefers to humiliate me with her foot smells, and with the knowledge that her feet are stinking underneath my enslaved nose. But she nevertheless knows, as I do, that, for all their flaws and smelly imperfections, her feet are better than me - for they are the feet of a superior, young woman.

I therefore genuinely honour and respect my mistress’s smelly feet – as, indeed, I do her footwear.

My most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia has a personal preference for wearing dark-coloured, nylon, knee-length popsocks on her wobbly, fat calf-muscles beneath an equally dark-coloured, knee-length skirt, and she nearly always wears the same pair of low-heeled, black leather, court shoes on her dark-nylon covered feet.

The court shoes have seen better days – even though my footslave tongue and lips do their shoe-level best to keep my mistress’s well-worn shoes clean and shiny throughout the day. But the black leather courts remain scuff-marked and greying in places despite my inadequate, footslavish efforts simply because they are my most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia’s favourite pair of shoes – like me, never far from her fat and chubby feet. Her dark-nyloned feet clearly feel comfortable, if a little moist, inside them – and therefore I am obliged to adore and respect both my most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia’s knee-length nylon popsocks stretched around her fat calves, and her protective, black leather courts stretched around her fat feet, every bit as much as I adore and respect her precious bare feet themselves.

Whilst I am perpetually kissing her glorious bare or nyloned feet throughout the day, whenever my mistress Sylvia has her shoes on I still endeavour to respectfully place my slave-lips on the dark nylon areas covering the tops of my mistress’s feet inside her court shoes, as I sense that a ‘perpetuant’ mistress such as my most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia needs to be able to constantly feel her slave’s humble, adoring lips on her feet at the very least through the thin, fine material of her dark-coloured nylons. She needs to know that my respect and admiration for her and her footwear is undying – and that I am perpetually in slavish awe of her, which I truly am! Kissing her outer footwear alone, her shoes, may not convey the true depths of my slavish devotion, though I will happily tongue-shine her shoes for her at any time she so desires.

Not that my humble shoe-licking, or bare and nylon foot-kissing efforts, in and of themselves, ever appear to be enough to satisfy the sweet, feminine ego of my most gracious and all-powerful, but somewhat insecure, mistress Sylvia. In addition to kissing her feet and licking her shoes I am repeatedly required to give verbal reassurances to my most gracious and all-powerful, surly-faced, mistress as to my utter devotion and reverence towards her as she towers, double-chinned, above me.

I am, of course, forbidden to speak to my mistress unless I am first spoken to – and therefore must always await her command to speak.

But it is never long in coming.

A typical foot-worship scene would involve my most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia relaxing with her shoes off and her dark-nyloned feet outstretched in front of her on the floor as she is seated imperiously above me in her favourite armchair - her still warm, brown-leather, single-tailed whip now resting peacefully on her lap – whilst I kneel with my head bowed over her podgy and imperfect feet, my back still stinging and smarting following a righteous whipping, and my slave lips feverishly bobbing up and down on the rough-feeling material of her exposed, dark-nylon popsocks.

As I am contritely kissing her nyloned feet, my mistress will pose a rhetorical question to me, whilst noisily stuffing her mouth full of cream-cake:

‘Slave, who is better? Me or you?’

It is, of course, a ridiculously rhetorical question, for even a Martian from outer space would immediately recognise that the well-fed and somewhat corpulent young woman seated smugly in her comfortable armchair is better than the scrawny and whip-scarred, semi-naked, male slave who is grovelling on his hands and knees before her, and repeatedly kissing her smelly and chubby, dark-nyloned feet!

But my most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia nevertheless needs to hear additional, verbal reassurances from her pathetic and powerless footslave as to his respect and awe for her sweet, feminine authority and superiority.

I therefore humour my mistress, and respond to her curt and arrogant mistress-speak question in the most self-deprecating and verbose of humble slave-speak:

‘Oh pray most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia, if it pleases you most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia, this dirty, whipped, footslave acknowledges that the most kind and generous mistress is his infinite superior and better, and humbly praises and blesses the mistress for permitting to him the inestimable honour of kissing and revering the mistress’s divinely-nyloned feet, if it would be so pleasing to you most kind and erudite mistress Sylvia.’

I mean every word of it – even though I doubt that my mistress Sylvia knows what the word ‘erudite’ means.

Not that her ignorance matters one jot in this world. For nature has decreed that – uneducated, fat and flawed though my most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia may be – she is nevertheless my superior and better.

For she is female, and I am a mere male. She is strong and I am weak. She is clever and I am dumb. She is fat and beautiful and I am skinny and ugly. I am less than the hard skin on the balls of her feet.

I proceed to apologise to my most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia for sullying her beautiful nyloned feet with my dirty, and inadequate male lips. And yet I continue to do just that – to sully the dark, reinforced toe-ends of her superior, nylon popsocks with my dirty slave-lips, for my most gracious and all-powerful mistress Sylvia graciously demands it of me, her worthless and completely inferior footslave!

My mistress Sylvia’s only response to my cringeworthy, slave-speak soliloquies extolling her graciousness and her sweet, feminine superiority, is to continue to gorge down her food, and to let out a womanly belch from on high above me.

Then, without any warning, she suddenly kicks me in the face with the musty-smelling, reinforced dark-nylon sole of her right foot and curtly orders me to scratch an itch on the side of her other, nylon-popsocked calf-muscle.

Itch duly scratched (mercifully without my inadvertently laddering her nylon popsock), she next despatches me to collect yet another cream-cake from the fridge for her to enjoy eating whilst I resume my humble rubbing and kissing of her nylon-popsocked feet and lower legs – right up as far as the dark reinforced, nylon rims beneath her fat and knobbly knees.

Once again my ugly, slave face is suitably engulfed in the sweaty, stinky aroma emanating from her chubby, unwashed, nylon-covered toes – the fat, womanly toes of my infinite superior and better.




Fable no. 5 – The Picksocket

Slave George was a professional picksocket. He stole socks.

He was feral – having been ditched by his former mistress (quite literally dumped in a ditch) some 10 years ago, when she had decided she no longer wanted or needed his personal, sock-grooming services.

He had therefore suddenly found himself without a mistress to serve, and without female sock to kiss, sniff, lick and admire. Like many such feral footslaves he turned to crime – he stole the objects of his deeply ingrained footslavish desire; he stole ladies’ socks.

Now, at the age of 40, he was quite a deft picksocket. He had never been caught. He could even steal a lady’s socks off her shoeless feet whilst she was still wearing them – without her even noticing! Though, for the most part, he stole temporarily discarded socks; socks resting inside shoes whilst the lady put her bare feet up in order to relax; or whilst the lady was sunbathing; or whilst she went for a swim. It was just easier, and therefore much less risky, than having to peel them unnoticed off a lady’s feet!

And George was sensible enough a picksocket not to take any unnecessary risks. The penalties for picksocketing in the Gynarchy were harsh to say the least, if and when the picksocket was apprehended by the dreaded Female Police!

The beach, therefore, was one of his safest haunts. And slave George was on one such picksocketing escapade at the beach this very morning.

He wasn’t having much luck so far, as he crawled like a scaly sand-lizard through the sand dunes. It was still a bit early in the morning for sunbathers, although the sun was well and truly up. Sunshine or not, all the women whom slave George had observed relaxing on the beach hitherto on this particular morning had been well and truly sockless. Discarded flip-flops were all he had espied thus far – and flip-flops were of minimal interest to him.

For slave George craved sock – and only sock.

And what did he do with his stolen, soiled sock-spoils I hear you ask?

Well, he did what any sock-obsessed feral footslave would do with them. He took them home to his cave and worshipped them. He sniffed them; he sucked them; he savoured them; and then he kissed them, hundreds of times – all in a guilty homage to the mistress-victim of crime from whom he had stolen the dirty socks.

When the socks had been thoroughly washed out by repeated soaking inside his criminal mouth, and as a consequence they no longer smelled of female foot, he disposed of them – for keeping hold of the evidence of his sock-crimes would not have been a wise move, should his slave-cave ever be raided by the Female Police!

That was why he was now on the crawl again – he desperately needed fresh, stinky socks to worship and, being feral, he was quite prepared to steal socks to satisfy his criminal, footslavish cravings. He could, of course, have merely begged for socks – even though sock-begging is equally a crime on the streets of the fair Gynarchy. But it would have been the lesser of two evils.

But no – slave George just didn’t have the patience to beg. He preferred to take without asking. He was a compulsive picksocket – a truly despicable creature!

Suddenly he saw them – a pair of dirty, pink and white socks placed in the open tops of a pair of sweet, matching pink and white, lace-up sneakers. They were lying in the sand beside a sunbathing mistress – a young, blonde woman who looked to be in her mid to late twenties.

The mistress was wearing dark sunglasses and a black bathing costume as she lay on a towel on the sandy beach. She wasn’t wearing anything else. But because she was wearing sunglasses slave George could not easily tell whether she was asleep under the sun, or was fully compos mentis whilst she sunbathed on her back.

No matter, the job was doable. The socks were eminently stealable as he would be able to slither along unheard on his belly through the sand, like the wily sand-lizard he had become, and approach the blonde mistress’s innocently discarded socks and sneakers from behind. He would then lift the two dirty, pink and white socks out of their respective, warm sneakers with his feral-footslave teeth, before slithering silently back into his hole the way he had come. The blonde sunbathing mistress would not even notice that her socks had gone, whether she has her eyes open inside her dark sunglasses or not!

Indeed, if he was very lucky, she might not even remember that she had been wearing socks inside her sneakers that warm, sunny morning at all! She might just assume, when she comes to lace her pink and white sneakers back onto her pretty, suntanned feet, that she had not bothered to bring any socks with her to the beach, and had been wearing her soft, warm sneakers on her pretty, bare feet!

They were, after all, a pair of short, pink and white ‘no show’ socks – the sort that slip deep below the rims of a young woman’s sneakers, absorbing her foot perspiration, but not exactly showing-off their presence to all and sundry! Easily forgotten by the female wearer – if not by the despicable, male footslaves crawling on their hands and knees about their lowly business, who can just glimpse a thin line of elasticated, white sock running along the instep of a superior mistress’s pink and white sneaker.

They say a fully-trained footslave can spot female sock at 500 paces!

And so, slave George’s hopes of a successful picksocketing event were high as he slithered his worm-like way silently through the sand and unnoticed over towards the waiting socks.

His finely tuned footslave-nose could smell them even when he was still more than a metre away from the socks. His heart beat faster! They were just the type of sweet feminine socks he liked best – predominantly white, but grubby; well-worn – with yellowy-brown and even, in places, black sweat stains along the soles beneath a rather fetching pink trim which ran just below the all-white elasticated tops.

All these intricate details slave George observed in the few split seconds before the socks ended up in his slave-mouth. His slave-adrenalin was racing – heightening his already enhanced footslavish senses, including his sense of beautiful, female sock-smell.

He turned to slither away – socks in mouth – when suddenly there was a loud, female voice:

‘LOOK OUT, STACEY! THERE’S A DIRTY FOOTSLAVE STEALING YOUR SOCKS! STOP! THIEF!’

Damn! She had a friend with her – a friend who had presumably just been for a walk along the beach, and who had returned just at the wrong moment, just as he was slithering away with his sock-swag hanging from his criminal mouth!

Or just at the right moment – depending on your point of view, if, for example, you are female and like to see a dirty, criminal slave caught and punished with the full vigour of the Female Law?

For believe me, for this particular picksocketing footslave there was now no escape!

The young, fit vigilante-woman had quickly run over in her bright yellow shorts and flip-flops in order to pounce on the male footslave slithering along the sand on his hands, knees and belly. Pitifully, even though he was attempting to escape, even though he knew the dire consequences for any footslave, feral or otherwise, who was caught stealing a lady’s dirty socks, slave George could not bring himself to drop the socks from his mouth!

Instead, even whilst the two girls – the blonde owner of the socks and her yellow-flip-flopped, dark-haired, vigilante friend – were pinning him to the sandy ground beneath the soles of their equally sandy feet, he doggedly kept the dirty, pink and white sneaker-socks inside his mouth and sucked on them. He wanted that last taste of freedom – that last taste of sweet, feminine socksweat before the inevitable happened and he would be arrested and carted off by the Female Police. The dark-haired girl was already on the phone to them.

Slave George knew that whatever happened now, he would never again be allowed near female sock. That would most assuredly be a major component of his punishment – punishment which would also involve lifelong incarceration in one of the Gynarchy’s infamous foothole-dungeons.

The Female Court - knowing his predilection for female socks – would punish him by denying him his sock cravings for the rest of his unnatural life. He would now undergo a process of desoxification – not in order to rehabilitate him; but purely to punish him – for the Female Courts know that sock-deprivation is a truly demeaning and degrading punishment for a dyed-in-the-wool sockslave such as slave George.

Or prisoner-slave no. 54795H as he is now known.

The outcome of his trial was as he had predicted. He had not pleaded guilty of course! There had been no need to - he had been caught red-faced and red-mouthed with the socks inside his thieving jawbones. Indeed, the Court had heard how the Female Police officers who came to arrest him had had to physically prise the stolen socks out of his jaws! The teeth-marked socks were even produced in evidence before the Court – exhibit no. 54795H (i) if you’re interested.

He was therefore self-evidently guilty, and there had been no need for him to enter a plea – other than a plea for sweet, feminine mercy.

Equally predictably, such a pathetic plea fell on deaf ears. The good lady Judge sentenced him to life in a foothole-dungeon, which, she specifically stipulated, must be sock-free, and monitored by female prison-guards who never unzipped or took off their knee-length, black leather, prison-officer boots in the convict’s presence lest he should get a furtive glimpse of their black, uniform socks inside their boots.

The Female Court had erupted with raucous, feminine approval at the newly-convicted prisoner no. 54795H’s just punishment. The female guard escorting him in the back of the prison van that conveyed him from the Female Court to his new, lifelong foothole-dungeon deep underground even taunted him with her own black, uniform-socks by blatantly defying the Court and deliberately unzipping the side of her left boot as it rested in front of his face on the dirty floor of the van, thereby gleefully giving him his last ever illegitimate glimpse of sweet, feminine sock:

‘Ha! Ha! Take a good look at what you’ll be missing, prisoner! Ha! Ha! No more sock-sniffing for you! Just boot leather – black, female-prison-guard, boot leather! Ha! Ha! What a loser! Ha! Ha!’

Of course, the last laugh actually went to prisoner no. 54795H, for, in the depths of his foothole-dungeon, the erstwhile picksocket quickly developed a craving for just such female prison-guard, black leather boot! He even managed to slave-speak one of the guards into leaving a pair of her old boots with him in his cell before she left on maternity leave, so that he could sniff them; suck them; savour them; and then kiss them, hundreds of times – all in a guilty, convicted prisoner’s homage to the mistress-officer from whom he had ‘borrowed’ the boots!

I guess you just can’t keep a good footslave down. Or rather you can, but that’s precisely where they want to be!





Fable no. 4 – ‘Hell hath no fury……’

I am in trouble.

I am kneeling at my mistress Josie’s feet in her living room, desperately licking and kissing her black, leather ankle boots by way of pleading for her mercy and forgiveness.

For I have been a very naughty footslave.

Earlier this evening I had accompanied my mistress to a hen party with several of her female friends. It wasn’t my mistress herself who was the bride-to-be. My mistress Josie will just be one of the bridesmaids. But the party should have been a happy occasion – and an easy one for me as mistress Josie’s personal footslave. All I had to do was kneel, as usual, at my mistress’s feet under the barroom table, and humbly stare at and admire her boots – the very same boots she is wearing right now.

It should have been easy because they are truly a very pretty pair of black, leather ankle-boots: pointy-toed; spike-heeled; zip-up patent leather ankle boots which hug my mistress Josie’s shapely feet and ankles in a most attractive and fetching way.

And there was much to look at on her boots under the table: numerous little creases and folds in the patent, black leather; some tiny scuff-marks on the leather tipped base of her spiked heel; even a thin slither of dust along the instep of her left boot.

My only regret, as she sat with her right leg crossed over her left at the barroom table, was that I could not see her delightful, navy blue cotton, ankle-length bootsocks inside her boots, as the hems of her matching, navy blue, boot-cut trouser legs covered the tops of her boots – even the top of her right boot whilst she was seated with her right foot hovering in the air underneath the table.

That’s why I became distracted underneath the table. I became distracted by the neighbouring boots and socks of another mistress – mistress Svetlana.

Mistress Svetlana is, like my own mistress Josie, a pretty, blonde girl in her early twenties – although she is considerably taller than my mistress Josie, and her feet are consequently a couple of sizes bigger than my petite mistress Josie’s feet. I have to admit that, although I normally prefer petite and gentle mistresses with small feet – like my mistress Josie – I do find the tall and athletic mistress Svetlana an intriguing mistress.

I believe she originates from Russia – judging by her name and accent. She doesn’t have a personal footslave of her own – again, unlike my mistress Josie who has owned me as her personal property for some two years now, since her 21st birthday.

I have therefore always enjoyed kissing mistress Svetlana’s boots and shoes (for I am routinely ordered to kiss the feet of my mistress Josie’s friends), knowing that the tall and svelte miss Svetlana does not have a personal footslave of her own to attend to her feet and footwear. It somehow makes her boots all the more alluring, knowing that they are ‘virginal’, so to speak – not that miss Svetlana herself is a virgin; at least, not from what I’ve heard!

But actually, as I knelt under the barroom table at my mistress Josie’s petite, shiny, black, pointy-toed and spike-heeled, ankle booted feet it wasn’t miss Svetlana’s larger, block-heeled and round-toed, black leather ankle boots that distracted my attention; it was the alluring glimpse of the elasticated top of her plain, black, cotton sock inside her boot.

Like my mistress Josie, mistress Svetlana was sitting at the table with her right leg crossed dominantly over her left, but unlike my mistress Josie’s navy-blue trouser hem, miss Svetlana’s black trouser hem had ridden up her shapely, Russian calf-muscle to reveal the top of her ankle-length, black cotton sock inside her pretty boot on her right leg – and even a slither of smooth, bare, white flesh above the top of the sock!

The top of mistress Svetlana’s black sock contrasted starkly with the pale white of her soft, white, Slavic skin – even in the relative gloom under the barroom table – and that was what had distracted my attention from my own beloved mistress Josie’s boots.

Staring at female boots is nice, but staring at female boots, socks and bare calf muscle is even nicer!

My footslave-eyes had, therefore, wandered over towards the neighbouring miss Svetlana’s feet and footwear – specifically her right, ankle-booted foot – as it twisted and flexed in the air, causing the black cotton material in the top of her ankle sock to crease and fold in reaction to her subconscious foot-flexing.

I was, in all honesty, quite mesmerized by the tall, pale white, Russian girl’s rich black boot and sock.

Unfortunately for me, my mistress Josie had noticed my disloyalty to her own feet and footwear. I don’t think any of the other ladies present had noticed – not even miss Svetlana herself. Indeed, I rather think that miss Svetlana was too drunk to even be aware of my humble, kneeling presence under the table.

But my sweet mistress Josie was fully alert to what was going on – for she does not drink. She has no need of alcohol or drugs to unwind. She merely whips to unwind and relax – she whips me.

And now that we are back home in her living room I can just tell that my mistress Josie is somewhat wound-up and looking to unwind. She is itching to use her whip, and I deserve to be whipped, for I have clearly upset my astute and superior mistress.

As I feverishly, but futilely, shower penitent kisses all over my blonde mistress Josie’s slighted, black leather ankle boots – including on that thin slither of dust and dirt along the instep of her left boot, for I know that my mistress always likes to see me kissing the dirtiest parts of her boots – my mistress Josie is putting me to shame through her incisive questioning. She is effectively forcing a confession out of me – an admission of footslavish guilt; an admission of disloyalty to her boots, although, pathetically, I endeavour to avoid my just punishment and to wriggle my way out of the impending whipping.

That’s the kind of self-centred and weaselly footslave that I am. I do not deserve my sweet and kind, superior mistress Josie.

The conversation between scorned mistress and wretched footslave goes as follows:

‘So, slave, why were you not concentrating on my boots back in the bar this evening?’

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress?’

‘DON’T TRY TO DENY IT, DIRTY SLAVE! I SAW YOU STARING AT MY FRIEND SVETLANA’S BOOTS ALL EVENING! WHAT DO YOU TAKE ME FOR – AN IDIOT?’

It is not like my mistress Josie to shout like that. She must be really angry with me.

And justifiably so!

Still I try to feign ignorance:

‘Oh pray mistress? This cringing slave craves your sweet, feminine indulgence mistress, but is unsure as to the veracity of the mistress’s statement, if it so pleases you mistress?’

Whack!

Mistress Josie reaches down and gives me a stinging slap across my kneeling and bowed-over-her-boots, right cheek with her pretty, and normally very soft, right hand.

My head is sent reeling, and my mouth temporarily loses contact with the patent, black leather of her shiny, pointy-toed ankle boots.

‘IMPUDENT FOOL! DON’T YOU DARE BACKCHAT ME, YOU DIRTY FOOT-PIG! YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT – I SAW YOU DO IT!’

The stringing pain in my jaw and cheek, now reddened both with pain and with shame, convinces me that my strategy of ignorance will prove to be no defence. All I can do is admit my crime and throw myself on my sweet and kind mistress Josie’s sweet, feminine mercy. For she has well and truly caught me red-handed.

I resume my feverish and contrite kissing of her dusty left boot – so rudely interrupted by the stinging slap of righteous, female indignation to my lying face:

‘Oh pray mistress Josie, if it pleases you mistress Josie, please forgive this dirty, filthy slave his disloyalty to his mistress’s boots, if you would be so kind most beautiful and magnanimous mistress Josie!’

My (eventual) admission of guilt – extracted via entirely justified feminine duress – seems to placate my mistress Josie to some extent.

She at least stops shouting:

‘Hah! So you finally admit it, dirty disloyal slave!...I should think so too!...Tell me, what were you thinking of?...Don’t you like my boots? Aren’t they interesting enough for you?’

The disdain in her voice is palpable and withering.

I immediately move to reassure my mistress, by word and deed, that her shiny, black, spike-heeled, zip-up ankle boots are indeed ‘interesting enough’ for me, and that I do truly admire and love them.

I kiss the sides of both her boots with even more vigour:

‘Oh pray mistress, please forgive this dirty, unworthy slave mistress, but this slave truly admires and worships the mistress’s most beautiful boots, if it is so pleasing to you mistress, for they are truly the boots of a supremely beautiful and all-powerful goddess, if the mistress would be so kind and forgiving to this dirty, unworthy slave, most respected mistress Josie.’

I can’t, hand on heart, say that mistress Josie, for all her blondeness, is a ‘supremely beautiful’ young woman. She is certainly pretty, but an objective observer would have to say that she doesn’t quite share the ‘supermodel’ looks of the tall and lithe mistress Svetlana, for example.

However, this is a situation par excellence where footslavish-flattery is most definitely required! I must do all I can to appease the righteous, feminine indignation of my relatively slight, and slighted, mistress Josie. And though she may not be ‘supremely beautiful’, she is most certainly an ‘all-powerful goddess’ – and a goddess who owns a whip, to boot!

Mistress Josie knows me too well, however, and is clearly not convinced by my whining words of wimpish woe:

‘Lying pig! Lying dirty footpig! Tell me what you found so much better about miss Svetlana’s boots that you felt compelled to focus on them, instead of mine? Tell me the truth, or I’ll fetch my whip this instant!...’

One thing I do know about my mistress Josie – after two years of (loyal?) servitude towards her and her feet – is that once the ‘whip’ has entered her mind, it will be employed on my bare back! There will be no escaping the righteous sting of her female whip now – no matter what I say.

This must now be a whip-damage limitation exercise!

But, quite apart from my natural instinct for bare back preservation, I do owe my mistress Josie an explanation of some sorts for my totally unacceptable slave-behaviour.

I start to weep genuine tears of fear and contrition as I continue to lick and kiss the pointy toes and side-zippers on both her black, leather ankle boots:

‘Oh pray, mistress Josie, if it pleases you mistress Josie, this slave was not so much distracted by miss Svetlana’s boots, as by the sight of her black ankle-sock inside her boot, if you would be so kind and forgiving to this wretched, male slave superior mistress Josie.’

Mistress Josie appears taken aback at such a pathetic excuse from such a weak and pathetic excuse for a footslave:

‘What? You were distracted by her sock?!..Oh, so my socks aren’t good enough for you then?!’

She sounds totally incredulous – as well she might!

‘Oh pray mistress, please be forgiving to this weak and feeble footslave mistress, but the slave regrets that he was unable to see his own mistress’s beautiful, navy-blue socks inside her boots as the tops of her pretty boots were covered by the hems of her trousers, if you would indulge this dirty, weak slave most powerful mistress Josie.’

‘Oh I see…so, let me get this straight…Just because you cannot see my navy-blue socks inside my boots that gives you the right to look at another woman’s socks does it?...’

When my mistress Josie puts it like that, I realise the utter futility and spuriousness of my feeble-minded excuse.

I just know what she is going to say next…

‘So, rather than think about my socks hidden inside my boots you have the right, enshrined in law, to look at another woman’s exposed socks, do you slave?’

I lower my head even further in shame onto my mistress Josie’s slighted boots. Needless to say, there is no such law in the Gynarchy.

Oh if only I could pay my humble and penitent respects directly to her scorned socks at this terrible moment in time! But, even though she is seated with both her booted feet resting on the plush, living room carpet, her navy-blue trouser hems are still covering the upper rims of her shiny, black leather boots. Her navy blue socks are still hidden from my footslave view – and my footslave lips!

There is nothing I can say to my mistress Josie’s rhetorical questions other than a quick:

‘No mistress.’

‘No mistress!’ she repeats triumphantly.

There is silence as she lets her victory sink in to my stupid footslave brain before she pronounces sentence on me:

‘Slave, I hereby sentence you to 35 strokes of my lash! Fetch the whip!’

I kiss mistress Josie’s boots one last time – firmly enough so that she can feel my quivering lips through her boots and socks – before I crawl off to the closet where my mistress keeps her beloved, single-tailed, brown leather whip.

I shall think about my mistress Josie’s navy-blue socks, hidden from view inside her black leather, spike-heeled ankle boots, whilst she is whipping me. I shall imagine how they are getting warmer and moister inside my mistress’s sweet, black ankle boots as she exerts herself with the whip.

For those sweaty, navy blue, feminine bootsocks are at the root of my downfall. They are the reason for my pain and shame. As my mistress Josie has so judiciously pointed out, I had failed to think about her navy-blue socks inside her boots, and allowed myself to be led astray by the sight of another young, blonde woman’s dark-coloured bootsocks.

I am such a fickle footslave!

And it is true what they say: ‘Hell hath no fury like a mistress whose socks have been scorned!’





Fable no. 3 – Redundancy

I am feeling a bit down.

The all-female office in which I have been employed for over 15 years as a humble, male footslave is closing down – another victim of the economic recession that has hit the Gynarchy.

Of course, it’s not just me who is feeling a bit down as I kneel in chains over the ‘step-up’ wooden, footblock on which the office ladies routinely present their dirty feet and footwear for cleaning – the owners of all those dirty, feminine shoes and boots are themselves, quite naturally, feeling anxious and somewhat uncertain about their futures. I can sense the tension in their pretty, feminine feet and ankle-tendons as I tongue-shine their office shoe and boot leather!

Unlike me, however, they will probably find new jobs, for they are all skilled and female. Whereas I – being unskilled and male – can expect to be thrown onto the male-footslave scrap heap, and will in all probability be sold for a pittance by the official receivers to one of the many slave-mines in the underground, stone quarries that surround our fair capital.

The capital itself, it has to be said, is full to overflowing with out-of-work footslaves at the present time – both public and private. There are just no new positions for unskilled footslaves like me in these straightened times.

Potential salvation from the wretched existence of perpetual hard-labour in the slave-mines appears to come to me from an unexpected, and most welcome, source, however.

The office cleaning-girl, miss Rathany – whom I believe is a recently arrived immigrant and female refugee from Cambodia – approaches me at my ‘step-up’ footslave stand in the ladies’ restroom one morning, during her usual, early-morning cleaning round.

I have often admired miss Rathany’s pretty, Cambodian feet and footwear from anear, as I humbly kneel over my wooden footblock on the laminated floor of the restroom. Even though she has only been employed as the office cleaner for a few months now, I have gotten to know her various socks and shoes quite well – since she often makes use of my shoe-licking services before the female office workers start work in the mornings.

Indeed, miss Rathany is nearly always the first young woman of the day to avail herself of my humble shoe-cleaning services – and today is no exception.

Nor is the footwear she is wearing on her pretty, Cambodian feet today exceptional. This morning she is wearing a familiar pair of short, grey and black, sneaker-style socks inside a pair of unassuming and cheap-looking, shiny black, flat, plastic, slip on shoes. Her blue-denim jean hems come down just as far as her shapely, Asian ankle bones, and her shiny, light blue, plasticky cleaner’s pinafore reaches down to her jean-covered kneecaps.

I have licked clean these cheap, black plastic shoes, whilst they are being worn over these equally cheap-looking, grey and black anklesocks, many times before, so, as I already said, nothing exceptional so far this morning.

What makes today exceptional is when miss Rathany, who hitherto had always seemed rather ‘stuck-up’ and supercilious to me, decides to engage me in conversation about her shoes and socks – albeit in her cute, broken English, the English of a recently arrived refugee from a faraway land.

As she leans haughtily on her mop and positions her outstretched, right foot onto the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face, and as I dutifully start licking the office dust off the rounded toe area of her cheap, black plastic shoe, she suddenly and unexpectedly asks me a rhetorical question:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave like Rathany shiny shoe? Like sight of black shoe on Rathany foot?’

As I said, miss Rathany has never really deigned to speak down to me before, so there is a slight delay of a few seconds whilst I register the fact that the superior, young Asian woman is actually addressing me!

I temporarily stop licking the black, shiny, shoe-plastic to assure the immigrant, oriental, cleaning-girl mistress that I do very much appreciate the sight of her cheap, plastic, shiny-black shoe on her shapely, Asian foot, and that I am truly honoured to lick it.

Given her limited English, however, I deliberately simplify my normally verbose and sycophantic slave-speak language:
‘Oh pray, mistress Rathany, this slave does indeed like the sight of your shiny, black shoe on your pretty foot, and blesses and praises you for allowing him to lick it clean for you.’

Miss Rathany appears pleased with my response, but continues our conversation of unequals, from her position of absolute, female power over me, with yet another rhetorical question:

‘Ha! Ha! And slave like Rathany sock? Like colour of sock? Like sight of sock on Rathany foot below Rathany bare ankle?’

I don’t yet know why this young, Cambodian woman is so concerned about my views on her chosen footwear, but once again I am more than happy to interrupt my humble shoe-licking in order to verbally reassure her of my complete and utter, slavish admiration for her sweet socks:

‘Oh pray, mistress Rathany, this slave does indeed like the mistress’s black and grey socks on her pretty feet and ankles, mistress.’

It is a heartfelt and honest response. I have always admired this particular pair of socks which mistress Rathany seems to wear quite often inside this same pair of shoes. Indeed, I have noted that she often seems to wear this same pair of short, black and grey, sneaker socks for two days in a row. I can tell they are exactly the same pair of socks because one of the socks has a distinctive little tear in the elasticated stitching on the top running along the instep.

Such pathetic little details enthral me, as does the distinctive, two-tone, black and grey checked-pattern in the colouring of the socks. The subtle shades of grey and black squares seem to complement mistress Rathany’s soft, light brown, Asian ankleskin very nicely – and, of course, the dark sock-colours go equally well with her plain, shiny black, flat shoes.

If I’m totally honest I admire mistress Rathany all the more for the very fact that she wears her socks two days in a row without changing them, for I can’t help but think about how they must smell really nice and stinky at the end of the second working day. After all, as the office cleaning-girl, poor, hard-working miss Rathany is on her feet pretty much all day long – mopping the floors and hoovering the carpets. Her socks must surely pick up a lot of dust and dirt from around the office floors, as well as absorbing her precious, Asian-girl footsweat throughout the day!

But miss Rathany appears to be only interested in my opinions as to the visual aesthetics of her socks and shoes.

The question is - why?

All is soon revealed:

‘Ha! Ha! Rathany like slave – like have slave lick Rathany dirty shoe. Slave do good – lick shoe clean very nice. Rathany need personal slave for clean all Rathany shoes and socks at home. You want Rathany take slave home when office close for good? You want become Rathany personal footslave?’

My heart skips a beat, and my down-in-the-dirt footslave-spirits are suddenly lifted. Have I heard mistress Rathany right? Am I actually being offered a new position as this young, oriental, immigrant cleaning-woman’s personal footslave?!

I do believe I am!

I truly cannot believe my good fortune! This beautiful, young, dark-haired Cambodian woman – who is actually becoming more and more beautiful to me with each passing moment – actually likes me, and wants me to become her personal footslave!

I just might avoid the unremitting drudgery and hard-labour of the infamous slave-mines after all!

I throw myself at the gracious miss Rathany’s feet and on her sweet, Cambodian-female mercy:

‘Oh pray mistress Rathany! Oh pray! Truly this slave would love to be your personal footslave! Oh yes, mistress Rathany! Oh please, mistress, please take me as your personal slave!’

I then place literally dozens of respectful kisses to the freshly-licked, shiny-black, rounded toe of her still-outstretched, right, plastic shoe - and even take the liberty of allowing my slave-lips to stray onto the soft, cotton material of her grey and black cotton sneaker-sock, so grateful am I to this young immigrant woman’s sweet, feminine magnanimity towards me – the humble, office footslave.

You will note that she has all the power in this situation. She may only be an office cleaner to the eyes of the outside world, but to me she is an all-powerful, potential saviour from the harsh and wretched existence of the slave-mines – and I therefore throw myself completely and contritely on her sweet, feminine mercy and power!

Even as I do so, however, niggling doubts start to enter my weak and feeble, male-footslave mind. Can she really swing such a move? Could she really afford to purchase me off the receivers and administrators on her meagre, cleaning-girl’s wages?

She can simply steal me from the office if she likes! Break off my chains and smuggle me out of the office - I won’t tell anyone!

Mistress Rathany, for her part, seems happy and jubilant at my enthusiastic response to her kind and generous offer:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave calm down! Maybe slave not like be Rathany personal slave? Ha! Ha! …Rathany treat slave bad, like dog… Rathany beat slave with whip long time …make slave many pain…Ha! Ha! …Also make slave work hard…make slave lick all Rathany dirty shoes and boots with tongue; clean all Rathany dirty, stinky socks with mouth!...Keep slave on knees in chain; never let slave leave Rathany house!...’

I cup my already-enchained, slave hands around mistress Rathany’s still freely-outstretched, right foot as I continue to feverishly kiss it, by way of a visual demonstration of my utter willingness to submit to whatever regime of pain, degradation, confinement and hard work she so desires – anything to avoid the hard labour of the slave-mines! Surely nothing could be as bad as spending the rest of my natural life below ground breaking rocks in the slave-mines!’

I feel that some more verbal reassurances of my willingness to submit to her proposed regime of domestic drudgery, however harsh, are equally called for:

‘Oh pray, mistress Rathany, this slave truly longs to be your slave, and will submit to the sting of your whip, and will work hard for the mistress in whatever ways she sees fit, if the mistress will be so kind as to take him in as her personal slave. Oh pray, mistress Rathany! God bless you, mistress Rathany!’

The young, Cambodian woman, still leaning on her dirty mop, nonchalantly changes feet on the wooden footblock beneath my face, and my lips and tongue are soon paying equally feverish, slavish homage to her equally dusty left, black plastic shoe.

She continues to laugh at my slavish enthusiasm as she points out some other potential drawbacks to my becoming her personal footslave:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave not forget - Rathany poor! …Poor cleaning-girl…Rathany not have money feed slave…slave get to eat only Rathany scraps, and drink only dirty rainwater…also sleep in dirty hole…sleep in dirty hole in back of Rathany yard, like dirty dog!’

I kiss the elasticated top of her left, black and white-coloured, sneaker sock, deliberately letting my upper lip stray onto her bare, brown ankle-flesh as I do so, in the hope that the feel of my moist lip directly on her soft, bare footflesh will endear me even further to her. For she clearly must have a soft spot for me to be making me such an incredibly generous offer!

I am about to express my total satisfaction with my proposed eating and living arrangements in her poverty-stricken household, when the young Cambodian woman suddenly puts me out of my misery:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave funny!..Rathany trick slave…Ha! Ha!...Rathany make dirty, office slave look like fool!...Ha! Ha! Rathany not need personal slave…already have footslave at home, given to Rathany by Female State…Ha! Ha!...You never become Rathany slave; you go to slave-mines when office close…Ha! Ha!...You go to hell!...Rathany already get new job, but you die in slave-mines…You never see daylight again…Ha! Ha!...You a fool!’

My heart sinks, and I stop kissing her short, black and grey ankle sock – not out of any disrespect, I hasten to add, but purely out of shock! Such a roller-coaster of slave emotions she is putting me through! Miss Rathany has merely been toying with me; she has been teasing me, raising my footslave-hopes, only to gleefully dash them into the ground again at her superior, cleaning-girl feet!

She never had any intention of parting with her hard-earned cash for a dirty, redundant, office-footslave like me!

Her attitude turns somewhat nastier now. She gathers up phlegm in her pretty, Asian mouth, spits on me, kicks me in my disappointed face with the rounded, shiny-black toe of her still imperiously outstretched left shoe, and then barks down at me:

‘Dirty slave keep kiss Rathany shoe and sock…not stop kissing...slave thank Rathany for tease slave…slave bless Rathany for make slave look like fool!’

Of course, I have no choice but to obey the young Cambodian mistress. Impecunious shoe-and-sock-tease though she may be, she is still my female master and better, fully deserving of my footslavish respect.

So what, if she doesn’t really like me at all? So what, if she never wanted me in her home? She has done me a huge favour in highlighting my utter foolishness and stupidity in actually believing that any superior, young woman such as she would entertain the wholly laughable idea of employing a down-in-the-dirt, office footslave and loser such as me as her privileged, personal shoe and sock servant!

As I indicated before, the Gynarchy is currently awash with out-of-work, personal footslaves, many of them with much greater experience than me, and the Female State, it seems, is even giving away personal footslaves for free to its recently arrived, foreign female immigrants – immigrants such as the beautiful and clever mistress Rathany!

She therefore has absolutely no need of me, however much I may need to feel her superior shoes and socks on my lips.

I humbly lower my lips to her left shoe and sock once more, and do indeed kiss them both whilst I verbally praise and bless her, and thank her for humiliating me, for, as the office closure date fast approaches, this could well be one of the last opportunities I ever get to pay my proper respects to the feet and footwear of a superior, free young woman.

I am utterly redundant, and the underground slave-mines of the stone quarries beckon!




Fable no. 2 - A Foolish Proposal

I am in love.

I am in love with one of the regular customers to my public shoelick-stand.

I do not know the name of my beloved mistress-customer, for she is very quiet and shy, and speaks down to me only to give me her peremptory and disdainful orders. But I feel that I know her beautiful feet and footwear very well, for it has been my honour and pleasure to tongue-shine her dirty footwear many times over the past year or so.

And I get to spend at least fifteen minutes serving at her feet every day, for I have the good fortune to be enslaved at a ‘sit down’ shoelick-stand – one where the superior mistress is seated comfortably above me in a raised, comfortable leather chair, like a throne, with her feet resting on two metal footrests directly level with my footslave face as I kneel on the dirty ground at her feet. The mistress can therefore relax, and spend some time having her footwear spruced up and attended to by her public footslave’s tongue – unlike with those ‘step up’ shoelick-stands, where the mistress must stand with her foot raised onto a wooden footblock.

Government Statistics prove that the average mistress spends 300% longer at a sit-down stand than she would at a step-up stand!

So who is she – this object of my slavish desire? What is she like?

Well, as I said, I know relatively little about the mistress concerned, as she is too good to engage in polite conversation with a common, public footslave such as me. She is, therefore, something of an enigma.

Her physical appearance is, however, extremely pleasing to the footslave’s eye, albeit through submissive-tinted spectacles. She is in her mid twenties, therefore about 10 years’ my junior; petite and delicate in stature ; slim; mixed race (I would hazard a guess at Anglo-Indian), with long, black hair and a fairish-brown complexion; bright, intelligent eyes – sometimes behind a pair of dark-rimmed glasses (not that I am permitted to look her in the eye); and a thin, wiry smile (not that she ever smiles at me – the down-in-the-dirt public shoelick kneeling at her superior feet; but I have seen her smile politely at other less lowly folk).

This mistress is clearly not materially well-off; she is probably an impecunious student of some sort. She nearly always seems to be carrying lots of books with her, and certainly dresses like a typical girl-student: scruffy, frayed, denim jeans; T shirt; bomber jacket.

What I am particularly captivated by, however, is her choice of footwear on her shapely, Anglo-Indian ankle bones. She tends to wear either a pair of tatty, grey-white, lace-up sneakers with dark blue stripes down the sides, or a pair of scruffy, cheap-looking, scuff-marked, block-heeled and round-toed, zip-up, black leather, ankle boots.

And socks – she always wears socks! She is most definitely a ‘socks’ girl! Usually dark-coloured socks, inside her tatty, old sneakers, or with her scuff-marked and well-worn ankle boots. I have also seen her wear bright, summery, cotton socks with her plain, brown, flat strappy leather sandals, during the hot summer months.

This is my type of mistress – beautiful, in a somewhat plain and ordinary sort of way. Certainly not a ‘supermodel’; more the ‘girl-next-door’ type of beauty – introverted; unassuming – and yet my undeniable female superior and better.

It is truly an honour for me to tongue-shine her scruffy, holey, blue and white sneakers; her musty, brown-leather sandal straps; or her scuff-marked, black leather, zip-up ankle boots. I also look forward to the merest glimpse of her socks every day – for she does deign to visit me every day, or at least every working day, usually mid-morning, on her way into college (I presume).

In fact it is nearly time for her regular visit this morning, and I am stealing myself; bracing myself. For today I am intending to make my move. Today, I have resolved, I shall woo my pretty, but mysterious, mistress – offer myself up to her; pray to her for the honour of becoming her personal footslave. For one thing I am totally convinced of is that a young woman like this will most definitely not yet have a personal footslave of her own.

She could not afford one – being a mere student – unless, of course, she has wealthy parents! But her scruffy footwear suggests otherwise. It suggests a certain lack of funds. It is also another strong indicator of the absence of a personal footslave in her life.

I mean, what mistress in her right mind would keep a personal footslave who allowed her to go out on the streets with footwear looking as tired and dirty as that? If she had such a personal footslave he should be whipped and sacked – for neglect of his duties!

I would never neglect this pretty, Anglo-Indian mistress’s footwear if I were her personal footslave. I would respect and honour it. I would tongue-polish her tatty, blue and white sneakers all night long, and remove the ingrained dirt stains on the white areas whilst giving the dark blue stripes a shimmering shine, if she were my personal foot-mistress. Moreover, the offending scuff-marks on the rounded toes and thick, blocky heels of her black, leather ankle boots would disappear under my personal-footslave tongue. My biggest regret as her public footslave, however, is that I never have enough time, even on my sit-down shoelick stand, to remove those scuff marks completely with my tongue!

It would take all day! But if I were the personal, full-time slave of her pretty ankle-boots I would have all day!

And I would not be a drain on the student-mistress’s meagre resources, for I would live on her scraps and leftovers. No need for her to purchase slave-gruel for me! If necessary I would even forage on the streets for leftover food – contaminated and rotten food dropped by superior mistresses after they have sucked all the goodness out of it and discarded it without a second thought.

Oh I could be so good for this mysterious, young, Anglo-Indian mistress. All I have to do is to somehow make her see that!

I can wait no longer – I must speak to her today; in humble slave-speak, of course. It will be a high-risk strategy, but I must act.

Nothing ventured – nothing gained, as the saying goes. Love – love for her feet and footwear - compels me to act.

She is approaching!

My heart skips a beat. She is looking particularly beautiful and goddess-like today, at least from my humble perspective as a down-in-the-dirt footslave: black bomber jacket; purple blouse; black denim jeans with frayed and mud-splattered hems; those familiar block-heeled, black leather, woman-sized ankle boots; and plain, dark, purple, female ankle socks. I can just see the elasticated tops of her ankle-length socks as she haughtily takes up her seat of power above me, rests her pretty, Anglo-Indian, ankle-booted feet on the metal footrest in front of my kneeling and bowed face, and hitches up the frayed and dirty hems of her, black jean legs to reveal a thin slither of soft, bare, brown Anglo-Indian, female leg.

Of course, she is not hitching up her jean-legs to afford me, the dirty public shoelick, a thrilling view of her soft, mixed-race skin. She is doing so in order that my slave-tongue may have full and unencumbered access to the whole of her boots! She is doing so because my slave tongue has work to do on her boots!

But I like to think she is deliberately teasing me with her bare flesh – as a girlfriend might do!

Not that I have ever had a girlfriend, of course!

Nor will I ever have one! The purpose of my proposed wooing of the mistress is not to become her lover – even though I am in love with her.

Ha! Ha! Who ever heard of such a thing? A public footslave becoming one of his superior, female customers’ lovers! Ha! Ha! What a ridiculous thought!

No – I know my place. It is as her personal footslave that I seek to woo her. That is all I can aspire to be. I love this mistress’s boots and socks. My place is to be with them.

But I must act now – or I may forever lose them to another slave!

The mistress barks down her orders at me as usual.

She may be reserved and shy, but she is not timid in giving commands to an inferior:

‘Shine them up, slave!’

And than, as usual also, she puts on her glasses, opens one of her study books and starts to read.

I don’t know what subject she is studying at college – and I don’t need to know. Such things are above my feeble, male-footslave brain. My brain is preoccupied with her feet and footwear – with her black ankle boots and dark-purple socks – as it jolly well should be!

I notice, for example, how the top of the mistress’s purple sock on her left booted foot is somewhat twisted. I long to straighten it for her – but have not been ordered to.

Therefore it must remain twisted – a pleasing distraction, as I verbally acknowledge my superior female customer’s curt instructions prior to lowering my face and lips to the grey-scuff-marked toe of the other boot encasing her right foot:

‘Yes mistress; at once mistress.’

I start to lick on the scuff-marked toe-area of her right boot – to ‘shine it up’.

Normally this is as far as my conversation goes with this particular, young bespectacled, Anglo-Indian mistress.

As I said she is very shy and quiet, and not particularly chatty. You could say she is quite stand-offish. That’s why I am so frustrated. That’s why she is such a beautiful and exotic enigma to me. That’s why I must speak now or forever hold my peace. I must woo her; use my slave-tongue to verbally ingratiate myself to her, and win her over; as well as using it to shine up her dirty boots, of course.

It’s just a case of making sure that I choose the right moment. Perhaps there can never be a right moment – for she clearly isn’t interested in talking to me. She is ignoring me, as she always does – relaxing above me in her comfortable, leather chair of power as my tongue now deftly extracts the street dirt and filth from off the side of her beautiful, black leather ankle boot.

I wonder if the mistress’s feet are cold on this cold winter morning as I perhaps start to get cold feet myself!

Maybe now is not the right the moment at all! Maybe I should wait another day – until the weather is brighter and sunnier, and the mistress is perhaps wearing her summer sandals – so that I can massage her summery, socked feet with my lips and seduce her that way into employing me as sock-kissing, devoted personal foot-servant?

No! I am just prevaricating – just making feeble excuses! I must act now. Sure I am taking a huge risk – the risk not just of rejection, but of the whip! For the public-use whip hangs threateningly on the wall behind me for any dissatisfied female customer to use on my bare back.

And it as a frequent-use whip, as the stripes on my bare back clearly demonstrate!

But I am at the stage now where the pain of the whip will be as nothing compared to the pain in my heart if I do not act now!

I have rehearsed my slave-speak soliloquy many times in my footslave-head.

It really is now or never!

I take a deep breath, interrupt my humble boot-licking, and dare to speak:

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, please forgive this dirty slave his rude interruption of the mistress’s reading – if you would be so kind most beautiful mistress – but this dirty, unworthy, public shoelick truly admires the mistress’s boots and socks, and pines for the presence of the most kind and beautiful mistress on his shoelick-stand every day. Oh pray, mistress, this slave is truly enamoured by the mistress’s boots and socks, and is honoured to serve the feet and footwear of such a proud and magnificent young mistress, if it is so pleasing to the superior, young mistress. Oh pray mistress; oh pray – this slave longs for nothing more than to serve as the supremely beautiful young mistress’s personal footslave, if you would be so kind sweet mistress. Oh pray mistress – pray do this humble slave the honour of purchasing him from the State Authorities for a paltry sum, that he may spend the rest of his natural life serving the mistress’s feet, forsaking himself unto all other mistresses’ feet, if you would be so kind and generous to such a pathetic, lowly footslave most sweet and kind mistress. Oh pray mistress! Oh pray!’

There – I’ve said it! My long and rambling, undignified and pathetic plea to the strange, young mistress’s heart!

It may be a cold winter’s day, but I am sweating and my mouth is dry!

I freeze as I anxiously await the pretty, Anglo-Indian mistress’s response to my heartfelt proposal.

This is potentially one of those life-changing moments. Breaking with all the Gynarchy’s conventions, I have effectively proposed my bondage and servitude to a superior mistress, rather than waiting for her to express a desire to enslave me!

Unconventional to say the least! But I had to act – I just had to. I love this mistress, and her boots.

The mistress, briefly, sets her book to one side and looks down at me through her dark-rimmed spectacles with a smile on her face, as I look up at her with my pathetic, expectant and coy eyes.

Thank the goddesses! She is not offended. She is not angry! She is not reaching for the whip!

On the contrary, she is smiling!

On reflection, however, it is not a warm smile. It is more of a smug smile. A smile of pity from a rightly supercilious superior to a genuinely pathetic inferior:

‘Ha! Ha! No talking slave – just licking!’

My heart sinks!

She has rejected me! She shakes her head and goes back to reading her book, as I resume licking her boot.

I turn crimson with shame and embarrassment at my footslavish-foolishness! What have I done? What was I thinking? How could I ever have thought that such a delightful and superior young woman, with such dirty boots, would ever be interested in having a common public footslave like me – a dirty public shoelick - as her personal foot-servant?!

In the cold light of rejection I can see my utter foolishness! I cringe with slavish mortification – I cringe at her boots; and resume licking.

I would verbally apologise to the mistress and her boots, except that she has ordered me not to talk.


Postscript:

I never did get to apologise to, or even to see, those pretty, black ankle boots and purple socks again.

The mistress moved on to another public-shoelick, sparing both me and herself any further embarrassment.

I am a fool.

Better to have loved and lost? Better to just shut-up and remember one’s humble station in life as an anonymous public shoelick, more like!




Fable no. 1 – The Three Types of Foot-Mistresses

Pray permit me to introduce you to three new words: Perpetuants; Intermittants; Celibants.

They are not words that you will find in any normal, English language dictionary – at least, not with the definitions which I am about to give you. For they are purely Gynarchial words – borne of our unique, male-slave-owning culture in the Gynarchy, of which I am one of the most humble, male-slave parts.

But there are, you see, broadly speaking, three categories into which the mistresses of the Gynarchy fall, with regard to their personal preferences when it comes to the methods of having their feet kissed by their personal footslaves: Perpetuants; Intermittants; and Celibants.

During my slave-lifetime it has been my privilege and honour to serve all three categories of mistresses, and so I feel I can explain these three categories of mistress with some degree of humble, footslavish authority:


1) The Perpetuant Foot-Mistress.

Perpetuant mistresses are those who like to have their feet perpetually kissed by their personal footslaves throughout the day.

Some commentators would, rather unfairly in my view, seek to characterize ‘perpetuant mistresses’ as being emotionally less secure than other mistresses – requiring, as they do, the constant reassurance of a footslave’s lips on their pretty feet and footwear by way of a repeated reminder of their supreme, feminine power and authority over the lowly, footkissing male.

Personally, I just think that they enjoy having their feet repeatedly kissed!

Perpetuant mistresses are a much smaller group in Female Society than ‘intermittant’ mistresses (about whom more later) – but nevertheless form a significant minority of mistresses in the Gynarchy – enough to have their own representatives in the Female Parliament.

From the humble, male footslave’s perspective, serving a perpetuant mistress can be a very demanding and exhausting experience. They say you can always spot the personal footslave of a perpetuant mistress by the fact that his lips are thin and worn down by continual kisses to his mistress’s feet and footwear – though I personally think that’s a load of old hogwash!

I have served several perpetuant mistresses during the course of my long and humble career as a private footslave, and my slave-lips are as moist and vibrant as the day they first paid homage to a superior lady’s feet.

My most recent perpetuant mistress was mistress Michelle, whom I served for some 3 years prior to her engagement and marriage to master Iqbal, at which point she unceremoniously dumped me for a newer footslave-model supplied to her by master Iqbal’s family as part of his dowry (that’s how dowries work in the Gynarchy – the family of the male often supply the bride with a new, personal footslave).

But, during the precious time I was in bondage to mistress Michelle before she was wed, I was very much obliged to comply with her ‘perpetuant’ lifestyle-preference, and to continuously kiss and worship her feet throughout the day.

At the time of my enslavement to her, mistress Michelle was in her mid twenties. She was a pretty, blonde girl – though quite plump and overweight; hardly surprising, given that she had a sweet tooth and was always eating. I recall that she had a particular fondness for chocolate, something it has never been my privilege to savour – since I am a slave and slaves are not permitted to eat delicacies.

Only slave-mush.

In addition to her fondness for chocolate, my plump, blonde mistress Michelle also displayed a fondness for wearing plain, black ballet flats or sneakers with various brightly coloured socks – and always with jeans or trousers. I don’t think I ever saw my mistress Michelle in heels or a skirt.

Nevertheless she was a very sweet and feminine, sweet-toothed young woman, and a pleasure to serve as a personal slave - quite soft-hearted and slow to reach for the whip. I therefore very much appreciated my 3 years in bondage to mistress Michelle, and learnt a lot about what it means to be the footslave of a perpetuant mistress.

In common with most perpetuant mistresses, mistress Michelle was not terribly fussy about which part of her feet or footwear I was repeatedly kissing and worshipping at any given time throughout the day– just so long as it was below the ankle. I remember she had particularly prominent, pasty-white, ankle bones, so it was never difficult for me to remember to keep my mouth below the level of her ankles in compliance with that main stipulation.

Other than the ‘below the ankle’ restriction, however, I had more or less free rein to kiss mistress Michelle’s beautiful, plump feet anywhere that my slave-lips could gain purchase:on her heels; her insteps, her toes, her arches; the ball of her foot; her soles.

She also didn’t mind whether or not I kissed her outer footwear, or her socked or stockinged feet, or even her bare feet – just so long as I was continuously paying my slavish respects to her feet. I decided early on in my period of servitude at mistress Michelle’s feet, however, that I would show my deep respect for my owner and better by always kissing the most ‘intimate’ areas of her pretty, if slightly plump, feet that my lips could gain access to at any given time.

I decided on that policy as I truly believe that a mistress – perpetuant or otherwise - has a right to really feel her slave’s lips on her feet when he kisses them, and I must say I never once heard any objections from mistress Michelle to my personal, podiatric policy.

Thus, if mistress Michelle was completely bare foot or in sandals, my footslave lips would repeatedly make humble and respectful contact with her soft, pale white, bare footflesh, if applicable beneath her brown, leather sandal straps. In particular, when kissing her bare foot-skin, I liked to slavishly kiss any marks or blemishes on her soft, bare, pasty-white, feminine feet – for example any little tank-track marks left by the stitching of her socks; or any little itchy-looking, red marks perhaps caused by tiny insect bites – all providing, of course, those tank-tracks or midge bites were below the level of my mistress Michelle’s ankle bones, as she had stipulated!

Fortuitously, at least in respect of her sock-marks, mistress Michelle, like many young women of her age during that era, had a particular fondness for wearing brightly-coloured, low-cut, so-called ‘no show’ socks with her plain, black ballet flats or sneakers – and thus the elasticated tops of her socks would often leave their traces on her pale, white skin just below her anklebones. I would have found it very frustrating as a footslave not to be allowed to kiss any tank-track marks which were just above my area of jurisdiction – for example at the tops of her pretty ankles!

However, mistress Michelle’s bare feet were not always immediately available for kissing as she was, of course, not always barefoot or in sandals – especially during the Spring, Autumn and Winter months – and so at such times I had to continuously kiss her precious, feminine footwear, rather than her precious feminine feet per se.

In line with my policy of achieving as much intimacy as possible with my mistress Michelle’s feet, at such times I would continually kiss her socks or nylon stockings whilst she was wearing them on her feet – whenever they were visible on her feet and my lips and mouth had suitably unencumbered access to them.

This would even apply, for example, when my mistress was wearing jeans with her black, lace-up, low-top, converse sneakers and brightly-coloured socks. Whenever a slither of bright, female sock was visible running along the top of her black sneaker, I was obliged to slavishly kiss it.

However, mistress Michelle had a particular penchant for wearing blue denim, bell-bottom jeans with wide, flared hems which often trailed on the ground and sometimes covered her sneakers entirely. The often frayed and mud-splattered hems of her bell-bottom jean legs would consequently tend to hide her precious socks from my footslavish view, and prevent my mouth from having access to her socks whilst she was, for example, standing up. At such times I had no option but to continuously kiss either the sides of my mistress’s tatty and torn, dirt-encrusted jean hems, or, if any part of her sneaker was visible, the dirty, black canvas of her outer footwear.

But just as soon as she would subconsciously position one of her feet forward in front of the other, thereby causing the flared jean-leg on her outstretched foot to rise up and reveal the elasticated top of a short, brightly-coloured, cotton sneaker sock – or, indeed, whenever she sat down, thereby also revealing the tops of her socks on her pretty feet inside her plain, black sneakers – my slave lips would immediately be drawn to kiss her hitherto hidden, inner foot-garment.

Basically, my lips would always seek out sock whenever they could, for kissing a superior, young mistress’s sock whilst she is still wearing it is a much more self-demeaning and intimate gesture of humility and obedience for a respectful footslave than merely kissing the outside of a mistress’s shoe.

Or at least, it is in my book!

Of course, because mistress Michelle favoured those ultra-short, ‘no-show’ socks there would often be only the tiniest area of soft, brightly-coloured sock material available to be kissed beneath her bell-bottom jeans – a thin slither of female sock just above the rim of her plain black sneaker-instep. But, fortunately for me, there was always just enough room for me to place my upper lip on mistress Michelle’s bare skin, whilst my lower lip simultaneously paid homage to the elasticated top of her bright, cotton sock – without in any way breaking the ‘below the ankle’ rule!

To be perfectly honest, I think my mistress Michelle probably liked the feeling of one of her slave’s lips touching the material of her sock, whilst his other lip brushed against her, smooth, bare flesh –though she never told me as much!

None of this was such a problem if mistress Michelle happened to be wearing her favourite pair of black, leather ballet flats with her brightly coloured socks and blue jeans. Unless her flared jean-hems were frustratingly covering the whole of her pretty foot, a fairly large area of coloured sock on the top of her foot just above the rounded toe of her soft, black, ballet-flat would be available for kissing.

I was only ever totally restricted to kissing her less intimate, outer footwear whenever my mistress Michelle was wearing boots – be they ankle, calf, or knee length boots. In such circumstances, of course, her inner footwear was completely inaccessible to my footslave-mouth (unless the mistress specifically ordered me to unzip the side of her boot in order to kiss her sock or stocking underneath, which she sometimes did just to humiliate and denigrate me in public in front of her friends!)

I would always compensate for the lack of intimacy that comes with kissing the outside of a mistress’s leather boot, however, by kissing those boots most energetically and vigorously. The important thing, from my point of view as a bootkissing footslave, was that mistress Michelle should be aware of, should feel, my pathetic lips on her bootwear, and so I would always kiss the leather of her booted feet all the harder – and even make sure such humble and passionate bootkisses were fully audible to her.

‘Mua…Mua’ rather than just ‘kiss…kiss!’

Needless to say, even a highly-trained and devoted footkissing slave such as myself cannot actually kiss his mistress’s feet every single second throughout the day – though the law requires that that should be the aspiration of a perpetuant mistress’s personal footslave. There are, however, various times throughout any typical day when it just isn’t practicable or possible to kiss and worship your mistress’s feet – most notably when the mistress is walking. At such times a frustrated footslave can only crawl and look – crawl behind his mistress’s heels and humbly look at her feet as she marches along the city pavements.

But just as soon as your perpetuant mistress stops at a pedestrian crossing you, as her personal footslave, are obliged to start kissing her feet again – probably on the backs of those dusty, canvas sneaker-heels beneath the frayed jean-hems which you have just been following on your hands and knees at ground level.

And as for the night-time, well no mistress, however perpetuant her tendencies may be, wishes to have her ticklish feet kissed and mouthed throughout the night. It would keep her awake! So even the tired and aching jaw of a perpetuant-mistress’s personal footslave does get some respite from kissing feet at various times of the day and night!


2) The Intermittant Foot-Mistress

These are by far the largest category of mistresses in the Gynarchy.

The word does not mean that they are only ‘part-time’ mistresses! Like all women in the Gynarchy they are full-time slave-users!

Rather, it refers purely to their footkissing preferences. ‘Intermittant’ (with an ‘a’) mistresses like their feet to be kissed by their slaves intermittently - at certain specific times of the mistress’s choosing and only in direct response to her direct orders.

An intermittant mistress would find having her feet kissed every time she stood still something of an irritant. She does not want her personal footslave to be literally under her feet all the time. For her, a footslave’s lips should be seen, but not felt – not until and unless she orders his lips to her feet or footwear.

You can probably imagine the sorts of situations in which such intermittant mistresses require their superior feet to be kissed by their personal slaves:

First thing in the morning;

Last thing at night;

Whenever the mistress’s slave is ordered to either put on, or to take off, an item of footwear from her feet;

Whenever the mistress’s slave is required to wash her feet;

Whenever she enters, or leaves, a room in which the slave is present (for example, his cell);

In front of her friends or family;

Or just whenever she fancies having her precious feet kissed and worshipped by her lowly footslave – perhaps to put him in his place or to reaffirm to the world her absolute, female power and authority over him.

It tends to be intermittant mistresses who also make the most use of public footslaves – and for obvious reasons. A perpetuant mistress, after all, tends to always have her own personal footslave in tow (or ‘on toe’ as we like to quip in the Gynarchy) – so that her feet can be continuously kissed throughout the day; whereas an intermittant, or indeed a celibant mistress (whose footkissing preferences we will describe later) is much more likely to leave her personal footslave at home – perhaps polishing her dirty shoes or boots with his slave-tongue, or mouth-washing her dirty socks.

I have had many intermittant mistresses throughout my slave-life, but the most interesting was probably mistress Ranee – an Indian lady in her early thirties, at whose feet I served for over 5 years.

Miss Ranee had a very ritualistic view of footkissing, and treated the whole process of having her pretty, Indian feet kissed almost like some sort of religion.

As an intermittant mistress, she didn’t like having her feet kissed all the time (like a perpetuant mistress would demand) but, in addition to the usual footkissing scenarios that I have listed above, miss Ranee also set aside three specific times every day - one in the morning at 10 o’clock; one in the afternoon at 3 o’clock; and one in the evening at 7 o’clock – when she required me to kneel before her whilst she was seated above me, and to kiss her feet in a very ritualistic manner 100 times.

It was just one of her mistressly quirks.

She was also, in common with most intermittant mistresses, much more specific about which area of her feet or footwear I was permitted to kiss at any given time.

They do say that an intermittant mistress is likely to be a bit of a control freak when it comes to the worship of her feet. That has certainly always been my humble experience!

Thus, during the morning foot-kissing session, for example, I was required to kiss only miss Ranee’s toes – either her soft, bare, brown toes, or her socked or nylon-stockinged toes, or the toe areas of her shoes or boots, depending on what, if anything, she was wearing on her feet at the allotted time. Not only that, but I had to respectfully and reverentially cup my slave-hands around her petite, shapely Indian foot whilst I was kissing it, rather as if it was some sort of divine object - which, on reflection I suppose it was, being the foot of a superior young woman.

Mistress Ranee was also very specific about my methodology of kissing her feet; I always had to start with her right foot – a single, short respectful kiss; and then move my hands and face over to her left foot, where I repeated a single respectful kiss to her toes , my hands once again cupped protectively around her foot – before repeating the process all over again with her right foot - and so on, until I had reached the grand total of 100 footkisses to her beautiful, Indian toes; 50 times on each foot.

In the afternoon it was her shapely insteps (bare or shod) that I had to kiss 100 times in total in this manner, and in the evenings it was the backs of her heels.

On all three footkissing occasions, mistress Ranee would be seated comfortably above me – be she at home or at work - so that full and unencumbered access to her pious, Indian feet was never a problem.

I probably kissed the intermittant mistress, mistress Ranee’s, feet almost as often as I kissed the perpetuant mistress, mistress Michelle’s feet, throughout a typical day! It certainly felt like it some times! My poor jaw often seemed to ache every bit as much when I was in intermittant foot-service to mistress Ranee as it did when I was in perpetuant foot-servitude to mistress Michelle.

But I’m not complaining – for there can surely be no greater demonstration of a male footslave’s devotion to his superior mistress than the act of humbly kissing her feet. It is, fundamentally and undeniably, an act of self-abasement – of submission and subservience. When you are on your knees and kissing a young woman’s imperiously-outstretched foot you are declaring to the world that you are acknowledging the mistress’s female superiority, power and authority over you. You are confirming by your humble actions that she is your female master and better, and that you are completely at her sweet, feminine mercy. You are stating that the dirt on the lowest part of her body – her foot – is superior to you, and that she has the right to crush you underfoot as you are truly a thing to be despised under her feet.

Trust me, you will never feel more like a helpless slave than when you are kissing your mistress’s feet.

It is the supreme act of male worship of the female.


3) The Celibant Foot-Mistress

Which is precisely why some mistresses – albeit a small minority of mistresses in the Gynarchy – are so called ‘celibant’ mistresses: those who have such a strong sense of their own, feminine superiority that they simply cannot bear to have a dirty, male footslave’s lips touching their bare feet and/or their superior, feminine footwear whilst they are wearing it.

Such mistresses see themselves as being too good to have a dirty slave’s lips sully their superior, female feet – and, it has to be said, such feelings are entirely understandable and justified, given their superior-womanly status.

A mistress – any mistress – is, after all, a member of the superior sex, designated from the beginning of time by the goddess to be the female master of the male, and to treat the latter as the dirt beneath her superior, feminine feet.

As it is written in one of our ancient texts:

‘And the goddess said:

“Let woman have dominion over the dirt. Let the male crawl and slither on its belly beneath the feet of womankind!”

And so it was.’

Celibant mistresses tend to take this ancient text literally, and therefore will only permit a dirty, male footslave to kiss the dirt they have been standing or walking on – the dirty ground beneath their pure, feminine feet.

More specifically, they like to see a male slave kissing the marks in the dust on the ground left by the treads in the soles of their superior, feminine boots, sandals or shoes – rather than their actual shoes, boots or sandals whilst they are still wearing them.

Celibant mistresses– you perhaps won’t be terribly surprised to learn – are often amongst the most strict and harsh of mistresses. Some say that is because of their disparaging view of male slaves – as being less than the dirt beneath their feet. Others speculate that they are more likely to be cruel and to employ the female whip on their male slaves’ backs because they have denied themselves their natural womanly urges to have their feet worshipped, and therefore have resorted to sublimating such primeval desires by physically chastising and disciplining their slaves.

I’m not a psychologist, so I don’t really know if that is indeed the case or not. In my own humble opinion, for what it’s worth (for it is merely a slave’s opinion) it is certainly not good for a footslave’s lips to be totally denied access to his mistress’s feet as nature intended – to be unable to express his devotion to his mistress through the age-old act of slavish self-abasement as we described it earlier.

But, whether I agree with the celibant philosophy or not, if I am enslaved to celibant mistress I have no choice but to obey her wishes.

Mistress Pratima was one such celibant mistress in my slave-life – a beautiful, slim, dark-haired Pakistani mistress in her late twenties. To be honest, I think it was her husband, master Anwar, who encouraged her to adopt a celibant approach to her personal footslave, as many ‘traditional’ husbands do.

Indeed, the statistics show that most all celibant mistresses are married. Their husbands are most probably jealous of the thought of another man in the house – even a lowly, male footslave – having access to, or intimate contact with, their beloved wives’ feet. Therefore they discourage it.

There is even a theory that the husbands of celibant mistresses fulfil their wives’ womanly needs for oral foot worship themselves – kissing and loving and adoring their pretty wives’ feet as only lovers can do!

That leaves only the celibant mistress’s discarded footwear for the footslave to kiss and pay homage to. I am unaware of any mistresses, even celibant mistresses, who do not require their personal footslaves to pay homage to their shoes, boots or socks after they have removed them from their mistresses’ pretty feet – else why would they need the services of a personal footslave at all?!

That was certainly the case with my own celibant mistress, mistress Pratima. Whenever she entered her home – which I was, incidentally, never allowed to leave – she would have me greet her in the outer porch of her villa by positioning her right foot forward on the ground in front of her, and then withdrawing her foot to allow me to kiss the ground on which her pretty, Pakistani foot had just been resting.

We would then repeat the process with her left foot.

My mistress Pratima always dressed in a traditional, brightly-coloured, salwar kameez outfit , typically with flat, strappy, brown leather sandals on either her bare feet during summer or, during the cold, winter weather, over flesh-coloured, nylon stockings or thick, white, woollen socks.

Having kissed the ground in front of her, on which she had previously stood, I would then be required to unbuckle the brown, leather straps on her sandals and take them of her feet, prior to slipping her pretty, Pakistani feet, be they bare or stockinged, into her soft, red-leather house-slippers.

I would then be required to remain kneeling in the cold and draughty porch along with her discarded sandals - whilst my mistress Pratima herself entered the warmth of her home with her husband, master Anwar - and to respectfully kiss, lick and smell her recently-worn sandals until and unless my mistress subsequently summoned me for some other form of service, such as massaging or washing her bare feet (some celibant mistresses don’t allow any contact between their bare feet and their male footslaves, but most, like my mistress Pratima, merely prohibit the slave’s mouth, tongue and lips from having any contact with her footflesh – not his hands and fingers!)

It is still a great honour, of course, for a mere footslave to be allowed to pay oral homage to a superior mistress’s outer footwear – even if it is not attached to the precious foot of his mistress at the time. I always truly admired and appreciated the dark sweat stains on the inner surfaces of my mistress Pratima’s brown, leather sandals, particularly around the front, toe areas – or, indeed, the little pieces of fluffy, white-woollen, sock lint that may have fallen off her socks and onto the surface of her sandals.

The musty smell of her discarded sandals also enamoured me.

And, of course, I could be required to mouthwash or handwash her dirty, worn hosiery - her socks or stockings – at any time. So, although I never actually got to kiss my sweet, Pakistani mistress’s bare feet, or even her footwear whilst she was wearing it, I still managed to become intimately acquainted with the various textures and aromas of my mistress’s discarded footwear.

And there is something to be said of this celibancy – the denial of access to my mistress Pratima’s bare feet only made me realise all the more acutely how utterly superior my mistress was to me. It reminded me of how I was unworthy even to place my lips on the bacteria covering her unwashed, bare feet. It reminded me that the very sweat pores on her bare footskin were better than me, and emphasised to me that her socks and stockings were also my superiors since they were permitted to have the very intimate contact with my mistress’s superior footsweat which my own slave-mouth and lips were constantly denied. I could only taste such sweet, feminine foot-perspiration second hand – through her warm and moist cotton socks or nylon stockings after I had humbly removed them from my mistress’s divine feet!

And so there you have it. The three types of foot-mistresses.

At the end of the day it is the mistress who must decide exactly how she wishes to interact with her personal footslave on a daily basis, and it is for the humble footslave to comply with his mistress’s wishes.

Be she a perpetuant, an intermittant, or a celibant – the dutiful, male footslave is just content to be living his life on his hands and knees at his mistress’s feet, and to be serving her feet and footwear in whatever way she sees fit.

.........................................................................................